Poetry by Erich von Hungen

                   ryangs CC



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Vodka And Cigarettes
 
My mother chose
            vodka, cigarettes,
            crosswords,
            a nightgown all day
            the pattern worn off in places
            and novels.
My mother chose
            never looking up,
            or out,
            or at.
My mother chose, "What?" and a glass.
 
My mother chose
            the little dog around her feet,
            it's yapping as a reason not to talk
My mother chose, "What?" and a deeper puff.
 
My mother chose a silence
            all her own
            with no way in --
            but sadly too,
            no way out.
 
My mother died on page 323
            not seeing the ending,
            half a pack of menthols unsmoked on the table,
            eight bottles of water-clear forget-me-not.
           
My mother didn't realize it --
            the book was closing
            on her.
My mother didn't know
            it would go with the rest:
            the valued, the recipes, the mink,
            the shoes, the still useful
            to the Goodwill.
 
My mother didn't see any of it clearly
            not like vodka,
            but more like cigarette smoke,
            blue and soft and enfolding -- no sharp edges.
None, except for the vodka when it showed it wasn't water,
            and she said, "What?".
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Erich von Hungen currently lives in San Francisco, California.  His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Write Launch, The RavensPerch,  From Whispers To Roars, The Closed Eye Open, Bombfire, and others. He has recently launched  three collections of poems "In Spite Of Contagion: 65 COVID-19 Poems", "Kisses: 87 Love Poems", and "Witness: 100 Poems For Change". Find him at https://twitter.com/PoetryForce

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