The march of red measle ants
through endless checkered corridors
made hospital reprieves deadly
so they told her to keep me safe at home.

My sleep surpassed nightly ritual
extended into 3 day affairs
my consciousness a parade of banana syrup,
triangle toast slices, my mom's open palm
pounding my back to spasms as I
monkey-hung off her knee, my head
inches from a mixing bowl turned bucket.

When bedtime returned to night and my nose
became pressed to the window to watch
ruck-sacked school chums with slit-eyes,
I longed to smell fresh air, roll in grass
grown long after days of rain.

My mom became warden,
I became ungrateful,
My house became the pillow
that suffocated me in the night.

It isn't until now, years passing
like cheap tabloid papers
that I remember her sitting days at my bed
watching me breathe
willing me back to health
her hand on my back a salvation.

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