The Vines Inside

“There are vines inside your mother,”

Daddy says, “squeezing as they grow.

Tightening and taking and suffocating

Is all they’ve grown to know.”

“They wrap around her lifelines,”

Daddy says, “cutting off what’s left.

There’s not much there for them to have

For they’ve already taken all the rest.”

I blink my seven-year-old eyes

Startled by daddy’s words.

“How can there be plants in mommy?

Are there also fish and birds?”

Daddy shakes his head and says,

“No, baby, only the vines live inside.

Only for so much longer, though,

For mommy doesn’t have much time.”

“The doctors tell me just a month,”

Daddy says, as he tucks my hair behind my ear.

I swallow down a quiet sob

And wipe away his tears.