Monday, January 30, 2006

In Memory of Maxine Bernice Martinez, my mother

i don’t think of you lying in dark clay waiting

even though just days ago
you closed your eyes
and wouldn’t move

even though i felt your heart's last beat
and begged you and god
for just a little more of your time

i see you kneeling in your garden
surrounded by yellow flowers, cats, foxes and racoons

holding dark earth in one hand, a bulb in the other
turning to me
chattering
about how glorious – and that is your word, not mine –
how glorious the bulb will, eventually, blossom
humbly unaware
or unconcerned
with your participation
in that glory.

No comments:

The tongue is a fire

allow my tongue my little flame to rove the apricot of your neck the raspberry of your nipples your navel the small of your ba...