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Final Words
Shanta Dickerson

I wish I’d been sober
the last time I spoke
with my mother.

In the space where our
final words should be
sits the venom-bite
of whiskey
and the glow
of piss-yellow
fluorescent kitchen light.

The language of pain
is laced with the cruelty
of broken-hearted daughters,
and I sharpened my tongue
to such a fine point
that every word
was soaked in blood.

It was another late night.
It was always a late night
when we spoke.
It took hours of drinking
to numb myself
to the sound of her voice
and to lose myself
enough to cut her
as deeply as I thought she deserved.
This time will be different,
I told myself every time.

This time, it was different.

Within the thick blur,
an icy clear moment sits:

”What does he have to do
for you to forgive him?”
”Say he’s sorry one more time
then find a busy highway and
walk into traffic,” I slurred with pride.
I leaned into a cold stove
to steady my floppy, drunken body
as she cried.
Delight
wrapped me in its arms
as I lapped up her sadness.

This was the dance.
This time, I froze mid-step.
This time,
I’d failed somewhere
in my ritual
of self-bludgeoning.

The gloat floated away
in a wash of warm sadness
as I realized
we wouldn’t speak again
because —
oh my god, I loved her.

Nothing I had done
to erase my love
had worked,
or was working,
or would ever work.
Love doesn’t die
just because we want it to.
No, love doesn’t die that way.
But people do.

Sometimes,
saying goodbye
is the most loving thing we can do.
I only wish I remember saying it.

—
Shanta Dickerson is now a published poet, thanks to Abandoned Mine! She’s a senior at the University of Kansas Edwards Campus in Overland Park, KS, completing a degree in Literature, Language, and Writing and a minor in Public Administration. She enjoys the usual writing and reading sorts of things and dedicates Saturday nights to watching horror movies with her husband, and a cat or two, should they care to join the fun.

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