The Matriarch

1

the room of the angular Italian is

always cold

she collects afghans and plastic Madonnas

and sits in her corner

away from the window

her crown is of steel wool

her mask is a brown splattered mosaic

her lips never tire

her voice never speaks

one from her clan of dark children

waters her daily

and grips her soft blue cables

to see if she is strong enough

to pull away

the room of the angular Italian is

always cold

to preserve its relic

for the next generation

of fading

brown children.

 

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