"A Note from My Mother"

 

Your birth was the birth of an idea born squirming

and red--but silent--with hair like blood in water and brass

attitudes. My sweet child, who I pushed into this world wet and

precious--my red pearl--I know you. You will grow into a squirming

toddler, a red child, and finally, a silent adolescent. Adulthood is the

loom--empty, waiting for creation--I know. Everything is empty as your

newborn stomach. Everything blank as your sweet face. I created you-and

you, child, are blank. That is why I plunged you into the water basin

by my bed until you died.

 

 

"Waiting for Word - My Mother's Heart Attack"

 

A dandelion in glass,

suspended-I wait-for distended breath to scatter-to shatter-stagger

breaths in beads of shine sliding through that thick medium-choking on

fluff, on white nothing. I wait for nothing-pale death on pale

horse-puffy-faced dandelion. I wait for breath-for long, dry drags that

smell of plastic and ether-seasoned with beta-blockers-crusted with

aspirin, as antiseptic and fresh as hospital linens, and colorless

as death clock dandelion.