The vernal equinox. Rebirth. Spring. Resurrection. Flight from Egypt to the promised land. 10th anniversary of the Iraq “War” (invasion). 19th anniversary of my mother’s death.
In honor of all this. In honor of the cycles of creation and destruction to which we are all subject. In deference to all the writers, artists, poets, great orators, quiet spiritualists who speak of our place in the Great Cycles of Creation. In all the forms we know through, and by, I offer a poem. (Originally published as Remains in Seattle Woman magazine, 2004)
What Remains
Burrowing
into mother’s pillow
I inhale
a curry of wet leaves, dried
roses, an absence,
like chilies lingering,
the tongue
no longer afire.
I dream of gulls
piercing a crushed silk sea,
a litter of urchins
lashed wave upon wave,
their empty bodies
crumbs
the beach holds
rising.
Awake, like a mouse
in hawk’s sight
my sand papered skin
longs for cover—a tapestry
jacquared with moss
and flame leaves—
for rain to fill my fluted
bones, picked clean..