Learnings
Comments 14

notes on a death

Some early notes following my mother’s recent passing, a first gravestone set down so that, in the words of Bernadette Miller, “we might wield words / like benedictions / and remember / blessings / within brokenness.”

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Easters she would hide
neon plastic eggs for me to find,
stuffed with chocolates or
jelly beans,
from the bathtub to
the backyard.
This year she scattered
fragments of herself:
her body and
her blood and
her burden
everywhere
everywhere
I look.


Lay it down: A winter’s spring.
(Out of)
Bluegill sip air softly,
(respect—)
Geese slice open the grey sky in silence.
(a)
Fox flesh decays hurriedly into earth.
(season’s)
Wildflowers refuse themselves.
(restraint.)
Mushrooms bless the rot of their beginning.


Isn’t it remarkable
that the will to live and
the will to die run parallel
inside us, and
that morning I couldn’t breathe
waiting for key copies in the hardware store,
they felt identical and
it was impossible to say
which was louder?


Somewhere in your body
there is a hole
full of memories and
sometimes you pull one out
on purpose and
sometimes one climbs out
uncalled and
forgotten and
spills forth
from your throat like
a shot of bitter whiskey in reverse.


There is no reason I woke up
today in Ohio with heartburn and
smelling of chlorine.
Unless—
we swam at the neighborhood pool last night
in Myrtle Beach before
cracking open fresh Carolina crab we caught
with string and raw chicken and drowned
in melted butter at the kitchen table, soaking
up Fresca and cool, thin, conditioned air
from our salt-marsh hair to our sandy heels.

I didn’t tell you that I like crab now,
and overripe tomatoes, and burnt toast, and
all the things that I, unconvinced, watched you eat,
my whole life.


(Leaves are righteous and trees are sainted)
After an indigo sleep,
rigid limbs, lung-less breath,
in sepulchral linens mantled
and delivered,
you find yourself among new neighbors: Giants
and saplings. Seasons pass in a day.
Supple branches offer you pear-memories,
fleshy, juicy down the wrist, sandy on the tongue.

Here are all the things you loved—
love—
Laid out before you in the sun:
rebirthed, undead, blooming, swollen with song,
flesh returned to bone in self-preservation
of the things you loved.
Thick soil underfoot keeps you
buoyant; the landscape
asks nothing of you, there is
only light, only air between you and this
wild garden of things you love.

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14 Comments

  1. Lorraine says

    My heart is in my throat as I read these words, so very sad and so true. Wonderful memories of a great independent woman, who should still be here today. She will be missed by more folks than we know.

    Like

  2. I’m so sorry to read about your loss. And I’m in awe that you can write such beautiful words in the midst of grief. These poems are a wonderful celebration of your mother. ❤

    Like

  3. Ahmed says

    Bonjour ,
    mes condoléance les plus attristé pour votre maman . ha désole vraiment
    que sont Âme repose en paix .

    et bon courage !

    Like

  4. Toda La Pesca says

    Such beautiful words during what I am sure is a very heavy, difficult time. I am so sorry for your loss.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Pingback: on a sigh | outerNotes

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