The Ballad of Dixie Lee
This poem is one that was previously posted and removed for publication:
Your hair was short and done up perfectly the way it always was.
Not the way it would soon become, pressed flat against the side of your head
from too many hours on the floor or on the couch.
You wouldn’t dare be seen by others any other way.
The rouge was just right, high on your cheekbones and your lipstick was
something between pink and red that I don’t know the name of.
Your voice was starting to become unsteady with the first glimpse that the confidence
was slowly being sucked out of you as you asked me
“Hon, do you think I’m beautiful?”
Of course I did. And always will.
Your breath smelled of mint tic-tacs with a faint tinge of vodka that
supposedly wasn’t there.
Your skin was stretched tightly against your gaunt face and felt like latex as
my cheek brushed against yours when I hugged you goodbye.
It wasn’t the same goodbye that I would soon be coming to say
as you lay there on the floor with your sister kneeling by your side.
“Where are you going?” you asked.
No. Where are you going. That’s what I wanted to know. That day you went.
Happy Mother’s Day.
I could taste the scent of White Diamonds as I inhaled and it rested on my tongue
like fog on a pond at morning time.
You gave a faint groan as you turned to walk away back into a life
that was never meant for you or perhaps that you were fated for from the beginning.
Apophatica 
September 19, 2016 at 4:28 pm
I appreciated reading this now, as much (perhaps more) than I did before. Hauntingly beautiful, and wistful. Thank you for sharing this again. JL