I am mother before me

The m hovers over the laundry of my past,
The time when I was other not yours, when I was ours.
Before we added the m, I was my, me, mine.
Now, I hold her head, her hand. I wipe tears,
and arses and sick from the spaces between us.
In your place, my absence, face unfamiliar,
washing piles of clothes and dishes, wishing away the days.
I wonder where the years have gone.
None of this is how I imagined it to be, when we kissed, absentmindedly,
when we drank wine and fucked. And fucked,
no cares but yours and mine. When we were a couple.
You and me, before we were three, then two.
Before you subtracted one from three and took me from me.

Hannah Storm discovered flash, CNF and poetry just recently, after 20 years as a journalist travelling the world, witnessing war, wonder and worry. Her writing pays tribute to the people she has met and places she has been and helps her to process her own experiences of trauma. Now based in the UK, she has been published in Barren Magazine, Atticus Review, Bending Genres, Spelk, Reflex Fiction, Ellipsis Zine, Elephants Never, and other publications.