Mother dearest Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 4th, 2004

Often these days (early May 2021)

the following genuine sentiment

Matthew Scott Harris

doth wish to share one son,

cuz seventeen years after

mother succumbed courtesy of terminal illness.

I still reckon how yours truly

shrugged off proffering tender loving care

when grim reaper in close proximity

to mama supine and nearly lifeless

within whose womb, this sole son born,

thus shouldered with self scorn.

He clearly recounts

as if her death occurred yesterday...,

(when all mine troubles

moost definitely not far away)

last remaining grains sands of time.

Imagine an hourglass

where fine granules trickle from one to another

(upper to lower) bulbed chamber

just prior when coroner decrees death,

yet an opportunity prevailed

wherein said self (me)

chose NOT to stand vigil

at deathbed of she begat an older

and younger daughter (mine sibling sisters).

Last breath(s) expelled while mama

tethered to machines,

(thwarting heroic measures)

one or more helped diminish

agonizing, depressing, and writhing pain

and discomfort racked

once fitness and health conscious

industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body,

which malignant terminal illness

(no joke) riddled a former robust

Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor

(think approximately seventy years past),

whose flirtatious demeanor

instantaneously caught fancy of handsome

twenty something papa at his prime.

Before rigor mortis

quickly stole precious lifeblood,

and final minutes ticked away

until countdown to...

realm of absent consciousness

scant moments before subtle transition

slipped our beloved mother into deadzone...,

neither final adieu, caress, grief...,

nor poem written...

never communicated to deceased,

not an iota of sorrowful lament

bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished...

over lifeless body (mommy dearest)

relegated limp suddenly cold stone body,

where morgue aged corpse

kept in cold storage

(despite aversion to frigid air

exhibited by mama)

preparatory to cremation process.

Rather... suppressed resentment

exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane

(partial listed abode -

Matthew Scott Harris,

plus his family resided)

by mister recalcitrant,

felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection

regarding once young bride,

(who smothered cingular heir

insync with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris),

cuz he (yours truly overstayed

livingsocial under same roof as parents,

which happenstance situated at 324 Level Road.

Both thee aforementioned

supposed biological guardians

railed, screamed, tormented

(albeit verbally) yours truly,

upon mine eighteenth birthday,

when great expectations greatly exacerbating

emotionally hard times,

which ill suited poet de jure

experienced, brickbats rained down

upon these (considerably mooch younger)

lovely bones whose anger (mine) smoldered

linkedin to constant epithets of expletives

out the mouths of those who begat me,

subsequently their livid with rage tsunami

festered within every holy (Molly Q. L.) molecule

within mine atomized corporeal being

manifesting itself as deprivation

to embrace dear mama

attended at hospital with

both non twisted sisters;

one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey

and the younger staked out modest home

within Bend, Oregon, meanwhile thee grim reaper

did patiently scythe soon

heading back to his old curiosity shop,

a rather bleak house

housing our mutual friend,

I now conclude.