the ghost of her

she is a ghost.
the woman who emptied her soul
with children.
this mother of yours.
this brown eyed girl
with black hair.
this muscled woman
of laundry and meals,
of scrubbing floors.
she is pale and weak.
marbled
in her chair, half
awake, half asleep.
hardly breathing as you
approach her and say
your name.
she is a sheet of paper
about to fly away
and disappear, her blood
no longer red,
now clear.