autumn.
She passed away last week,
and all John had to say was
‘my mum said that you looked very
put together at the funeral.’
She died on Sunday, 11:32 am;
the doctor must have been wrestling
with the monolithic paper.
Called time of death five hours post mortem;
refusing to return lost time.
She’s grabbing at breaths,
I’m afraid that if I really hold
her limp hand, it will crumble.
When I was eight the priest gave me
a porcelain icon of the Virgin.
And his sandpaper voice told me:
‘Hold this when you are in need of the Lord’s help’.
When she was diagnosed I held that icon
everyday, wishing vague concepts of cancer away.
My grip progressively constricting with
Every unanswered prayer,
Until it broke into pieces and fell through my fingers.
summer.
When the doctors told her, she didn’t know
how to respond— a smile simply rippled across her lips.
She turned around for a moment, and
bit down, hard; then she faced them once more
“No,” she said
“they’re wrong. You’re wrong.” as if
correcting a fourth grader’s arithmetic.
And then she walked out, leaving them
looking blankly on.
When the doctors told her, everything
went silent, everything except the hum,
of florescent lights.
I imagine her looking up to see
what it exactly was invading that moment,
only to see the decorative black
splotches of dead flies against white lights.
And then she walked out, leaving the
doctors looking blankly on.
When the doctors told her, I wasn’t there.
The only thing I really know is that she left,
and bought a pair of a thousand dollar pearl earrings.
spring.
Grandma hasn’t erased the to-do list
on the blackboard behind her door, yet.
It is spring now, in the grocery stores
they are selling daffodils.