With every injection she hoped to meet her mother. Her sweet mother not yet lost to stepfather’s fists. In her drug-induced dreams she was running across orchards outside their trailer park home to meet and embrace soft arms still without the scars and needlemarks she later had to tend, to laugh together and feel mother’s breath lacking sharp bourbon bouquet of later mornings. Before she had to comfort a mother that had fallen into misery, gone into funk, failure and depression. Gone in depression that covered everything with an oily film of neglect. They both once had hopes, dreams of the pure land, where cherry petals lacked the smell of today’s back-alley degradation. A land where tranquillity didn’t mean needle pricked skin or the persistent taste of bile blended with fast-food left-overs. A place where no-one was ready to sell the other’s loyality and love for a quick fix.
Pure land dreams dwindles as her used syrenge falls like gutter cherry bloom.
When they found her slumped against the dumpster the morning after, her lips bluish and frozen in the unseasonable cold weather, they all reflected how young she looked, her face all relaxed and smiling. She was covered in snow, like she once again was dressed in the cotton gown she had running barefoot through cherry orchards. Snowflakes now stuck to her needle-marked feet like once white cherry petals did to her bare feet. Her cerulean eyes glistened and told them that she had joined her mother in that land far away. In harsh voices they sang a brief song, before leaving her to be found by others.
A cardboard tag fixed with paper string to her frozen toe reads Jane Doe.
Once again I felt like I wanted to go a little gritty and sad with an americas sentence. I made it into a haibun by adding my prose-verse of darkness for Trifecta. The haiku are replaced by so-called american sentences.
Linked to Trifecta. The word of the week is funk (I hope I got the meaning right.
February 17, 2014