Hole In My Head

There is a hole in the back of my head. I try to brush it out. But it won’t go. It reminds me of my mother. I look in the mirror. I am not them. Her. Her sin of omission. My hands fumble. Try and match packet to powder. Stain to incident. I have this feeling. I can’t name it. It won’t go. To try and pack it up. Throw it away. Is futile. It will follow me. And follow me. Until time is up. Time is up. My head jerks. Down. To my chin. So heavy I can’t keep looking straight. To line up the scissors. To cover up. To forget. But it won’t forget. The clocks I tried to stop. They are tripping and falling. Going backwards and forwards. Tricking me. Tripping me. Testing me. I put on the little denim jacket. The one with lots of pockets. For things. Deposits. Reminders. Me. A trail of blood spots from pocket to pocket. Sleeve to cuff. Neck to chest. I wipe my fingers over them. Trying to do the jigsaw. Match the pieces. Come up with a picture. It hurts. The dark glasses ease it. Things. I slip them on. Whenever she comes back. Whenever there is a mirror. Whenever I find a hole in my head that won’t brush away.