Jump to content
Grief Healing Discussion Groups

Poem on my mother's death in February


Recommended Posts

Open Season


My mother’s hand the last morning as I sit alone with her—

already gone though forehead still warm, petunias


outside the window, orange pink, bruised

as those on the narrow path once outside our house.


Light clings like mud to her skin,

not what it used to be, hauling off in flakes,


revealing fine cuts near her mouth,

“like paper,” they said as if clearing it with us


a technical problem that could be solved

with a maximum of red.


Threads of hair I brush off her face,

dark flooded eyes ignore all warnings,


mouth once an open smile now hollow cheeks

fashioning a skull, despite how she knew everything.


I cannot understand how this brain cut

can happen— where is the dividing line—


her childhood, the past

her adulthood, the past


old age, the past. Her eyes

coals over an open fire


warmed by what she carries within

now filling this room.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now
  • Create New...