Velma
by John Borneman

I've collected copper pennies
since mother died last year.

One always placed beneath her tongue,
its sharp metalic tang
to stem her tears, to keep her here
with me.

Velma found her first--
Giggling into mother's bathroom,
ready for bed,
teddy bear dangling

baby feet slipping on a wet,
red-soaked floor.

I found them later--
Velma crying with no noise,
embraced by mother's ruined wrists,
jammies soaked in tepid bathwater.

Neither one's eyes had life.
Though Mother's were dark, unblinking,
Velma's overflowed.

I've collected copper pennies
since mother died last year.

One always kept beneath her tongue,
its sharp metalic tang
reminding her of blood
flowing down the babysitter's leg,
pierced by pointed baby teeth,
coating Velma's lips
as she smiled and remembered Mommy.