detritus cycle

Standing in her debris,
I remember when I left home for good.
I was seventeen
slender, lithely moving
through the maze of boxes and bags,
piled high and obstinately saved
"to keep memories in"
my mother said, in response
to the adult caseworker's inquiry
as I slipped out the door and far away
from my mother's compulsive needs.

Ten years later, she left a history in rust
patterns and stains along the wall -
waterlogged clothes and rodent droppings.
I count them slowly,
noting the arc and the bend
of organic decay has an artistic degree.
Nothing has changed, including the small
portrait of our nuclear family
hanging hidden behind stacks of rubbish
and suspiciously clean.

So unlike me,
she could never let anything go.