Poppet

My mother did not die of arthritis;

she died of heart attack.

But I don’t believe that.

My mother did not die,

She was killed.

By blood.

Bad blood

that runs through our veins.

Syringes stroked her pale loose skin

like a poppet pierced with pins

with pitch black button eyes

played by the hands of our own.

The curse seized her baggy body,

its seams slowly losing its grip

detaching her soul from their dummy,

leaving the host empty.

My mother did not die of arthritis;

she was killed

by needles

struck in her heart.