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 sixty seven 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.