Tag: son
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Olvidada (forgotten)
My mother’s name is lost to everyone beyond her children.“She was beautiful.What was her name?”,others would say to me when shown her image hanging silently on the wall.In the chanting of it—their wind echoes my death back in a cloud of disinterested kindnessand muttered miseries. They know only their faces, the renamed mountains and rivers,the…
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Little Father
Because I can not bury my father in the skyI burn him and spread his ashes on the ground.He loved birds yet did not feed them crumbs—just caught them in the color of their being.He would watch the mower plow the field,watch the hand fill the feeders with seedfeeling the tranquility of the man-made ponddrift…
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Assembling the Crib
He lacked the skill to make it true, the crib, so he assembled it from a wordless diagram,an ark of 5 panels, 32 screws and bolts, 3 tools-tightening it just enough, until the memory of its creation fixed solid in his soul, well past the 1000 days of the child dreaming in it, the 30…
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A Hole in the Bucket
My mother was always a better singer than she was a cook. She may have burnt a lot of things but never missed a note, especially when Harry Belafonte came on the transistor kitchen radio-a voice so pure it made her cry with joy.“There’s a hole in the bucket dear Liza, dear Liza,” he sang…
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Trying to Follow My Mother
This morning the ghost of my mother haunted me. There was just peace, calm, a blue-green shadowy crystal shimmering steady above my sleeping chair. She came at a time when only I can see and know her- before the last dream and dawn, before the others awakening, she pulsated lovely and in proper motion through…
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Father, Sin and Holy Ghost
I squatter in the catacombs of remembrance. grinding my bones with pumice and chalk for a fine bone dust to clean the vellum bindings of my soul’s revisions. The scars glitter the ground. All the others with almost identical names, are around me, enough alike to make me doubt the date I was born. Something…
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I Can Never Write Like My Mother
Am I left loving what my mother couldn’t? — writing on patchouli scented paper — words doused in sweet musky earth — unsent letters, all sweet and spicyI laid the stems of letters across wet pages—but they did not take— failed to bloom—I tired of the scent— wished for the beautiful unadorned line— divorcedfrom all…
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An Endless Telephone Call
I knew this pulse had traveled thru spacewith a shivery speedto reach this felt sole,these five yards of ancient twisted wires that gave it sound-striking its bell three times in mournful bursts.it was too early to hear the good news of friends.Yet, even not quite awake,I knew between the sounds of hello and goodbye my…
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My Mother’s Sounds
I am not your dying son, I thought, as my wife gave me the diagnosis, remembering my mom in her dying chair. I will not pass into final memories watching the Pope in America. “Bless me, Papa”, will not be my last words. I do not believe in my mother’s God though He…