Smile gone up in smoke

there are too many poems
about sadness,
too many poems spilling out stories
stamped with tears,
faces hosting the highest bids of sorrow.

yet mine, sad as it may be,
seeks to position
my words like a sniper to hit hearts,
your heart as the surrogate mother of my poetry.

arthrosis, arthritis
I don’t care about your name or your first name
the hour is grave
hence the urgency for this poem to have an angle
to fire at your left hand that holds
my mother’s bones and closes the door on her smile

I had so wished
that pain was something that could be shared
like we do seventy-thirty
when I say I share your pain, Maman
it would be literally,
not a figure of speech to make fun of you