Daughter's Grief

the tears loused her foundation,
smudged lipstick in streaks
of despair-drowned breaths.

a call from home
should have borne the fresh air
of a familiar, lilting voice,
but all she heard were commas
of compunction reluctant to break
the news of a full stop
for a life to whom she owes her own.

now her shoulders point inwards
and channel quavering speech
of her grief;
of a grief I cannot relate to,
of a grief I can only apologise for.

the receiver of her first words
utters words no more.
fifty three year old eyes knew
a mother;

now those eyes weep,

for her.