to the skull lying on the bush btwn 51 & 52:

the last time i was home,
there was a dead cat lying
in front of my neighbors' doorstep.
it's not there anymore- in its stead is
a large stain, like a grease spill or a portal.
my mother pointed it out to me as if to say,
"see. look how disgusting."
but death seems to lay in front of
all of our stoops. the television tells me
that a young black girl was shot down
the street from my home, and
my mother ignores it, telling me nonchalantly
about her latest ailments.
"when i cough too hard water comes
out of my sockets." i look at her with sad eyes.
"do you feel these lumps here? and here?"
i probe at her throat with my fingers. yes, i feel them.
she looks at me for a long time.
"what? you should have been here
last week. things were much worse then."
i want very much to look away. this morning, while we
move my things back home, i search for the cat,
half-expecting it mangy black body to still be
rotting in the sun. instead, i see my mother
strain to make her way up the stairs, and i wish
that i was somewhere else entirely.