Come September June

I

When did you know you’d  never come back?
Was it when they strapped electrodes to your skull,
Gave you a bit, yet still you convulsed?
You entered barred windows with gnarled trees outside,

You were once a young woman afraid of her shadow
And you returned without a voice,
Your eyes sunk back, on a cool day in hell,
Some September June.
A word salad your mind built then threw away the key.

We drove long that afternoon to visit you
We girls in green organza dresses, bobby socks, Mary Janes.
Grandma tied our sash.

We climbed into the Chevy and sang songs while Daddy drove.
They wheeled you out, we waited on the lawn
A pink blanket around your knees,
But you were not there.

Nothing was as it should have been.
My fried chicken drums became your legs,
the red Gingham picnic tablecloth became your lap blanket
My wide-eyed hope became your long-dead eyes.

You said nothing but gave me the slippers you crocheted,
Those I proudly wore until holes wore through to my soul
And I wore the enameled necklace you made in therapy
Now stored in my hope chest.

Years before when your chestnut hair was long
I sat in your silken lap as you sang, cooed
and  wove soft, perfumed fingers through my baby hair,
Your cheek next to mine and I was happy.
The sun shone music and it never rained.

II

I lay on the bed, refusing to eat. A hunger strike ‘till you came home.
They brought you home.
Your smile now crooked.
Your dead eyes filled the house.
You swept but your eyes did not see.
I wept but your eyes did not see.
We hired Esmeralda to wash the walls and fold the laundry.
You mumbled into your word salad some September June
of men who were here, and the plot they wove
to steal you to a watery grave.
That is not right.
None of it.

III

Years passed and you sold the beds,
Kissed a man then married him in Vegas
and divorced him, some September June.
You had a black child then gave her up
and you stopped painting.
Yet still your dead eyes did not see.
You swept but your eyes did not see.
I wept but your eyes did not see.
Munsch’s Scream you took me to when I was three
Penetrated my mind with screams,
The oil of yours I had undone for you do redo exhibited at the juried show
All dead eyes.
The plot unraveled your mind some September June.

Nothing worked. Your soul. Your mind.
Rent from screams when they fixed electrodes to your skull
Gave you a bit yet still you convulsed
And you were gone.
You worked at the lab yet you saw nothing.
Your eyes did not see us three little girls grow into women.
We grew on our own, bereft of Mother. Mommy. You.
The gift of you was taken from us, you.

IV

Your soul looped around me
in your letters extolling the virtues of
heroin and masturbation, and my friends
laughed; the first, I am sure you did not do
(though I know your friends did);
 and the second I am equally sure you did;
I brought you back from old Mexico
from those myths you believed
before police could lock you up, and you ran to
the FBI office to complain you weren’t getting paid.
 
We never had a Mom, you know.
You swept but your eyes did not see.
I wept but your eyes did not see.
Faraway eyes skewed advice, sexual references,
your letting harm get in our way. 
As the medication finally kicked in some September June, you went to school to become a nurse. With straight As.

V 

Come September June the year before you died,
you stayed a month. We knew it would be your last.
You were old and gray, you shook and wobbled,
and walked with a cane.
The medication stole your mind, your body,
As you sat on a bench with your fur wrapped around you,
Lost to the eons, the winds. 

Come that last September June,
You sat in my silken lap as I sang, and cooed
and wove soft, perfumed fingers through your graying hair,
Your cheek next to mine, and you were happy.
The sun shone music and it never rained.