Mask

My mother sent me a mask today
folded in the mail

When I was a small boy
I was hit by a truck

I still have the scars
under all this, somewhere

Actually, it was my own fault
I was running without looking

I remember
not remembering

Just the smell of rain soaked dirt
and blood and being

Held in mother’s arms, the
animal-patterned hanky pressed across my face

The strange gallop and pitch of her voice
I had never heard that sound

She’d have been so young
arm stained crimson, crying out for help

Then the gloved hands and the bright lights
and the sinking down beyond all touch

To the place that ember pulses
and makes the dreamers of us

And makes the dreamers of us
dream the dreams, remind ―

Stay alive.
Just stay alive.

And finding my body, alone in the ward
and her along beside

My mother sent me a mask today
folded in the mail. It feels nice.

© Brendan Bonsack
July 2020