I see new lines carved in her face
every time I open the kitchen door.
Her face is somber as the Grand Canyon.

I feel new pains every time I hug her,
her arms wrapped 'round my back like chains.
She is still a scared girl, alone on the sofa.

I hear new worries every time she breathes,
her breath slips and tumbles, thudding, down the stairway.
She holds the fallen dead inside of her lungs.

I was fed by her joy and blood,
cleansed by her tears and hair,
taught by her everloving tongue.