2004-02-25
10:26 p.m.

Mother
For Judy Ann Cole

As I am speaking, I realize suddenly
that I have your hands.

Soft, pale, slender blue veins winding like vines
through the palm and behind,
my fingers like petals rising from a center
that will wither as you did
under dirt and stones and no water.

Above ground,
I sleep unsoundly
in a bed like a jail.
You are not here to rock me to a steady rest.
Your hands are not running over my eyebrows, my shaking lips.
Your hands are not chasing away tears and the terror of closed eyes.

So, the prophecy of a nightmare breaks in, and
unfurls her unmerciful claws.
But I am patient,
like leaves waiting to fall in a cold Autumn.
And as dark terror descends around me,
your empty house, your empty chair and bed,
I realize slowly that I have your face.
My father’s smile creeps across my mouth, yes.
But your cheekbones, your coffee-colored eyes,
your shape and contour emerge as I grow.

I am thin and steadfast like a tree,
like my father.
I look into his coffee- colored eyes and tell him,
“No, look here and you will not lose her.”
And he does not bend, or break, or falter,
like stems or weak mortals.
We lean like heavy arches,
a golden bridge of salted tears and artifacts:
pictures and clothes, jewelry and Elvis’ face on a TV Guide,
tiny post-it notes, pens and prayer books.
And yes, still more pictures.

Mother, I still wait
For you to wake me.