Ending the Estrangement
from my mother's sadness, which was,
to me, unbearable, until,
it felt to me
not like what I thought it felt like
to her, and so felt inside myself—like death,
like dying, which I would almost
have rather done, though adding to her sadness
would rather die than do—
but, by sitting still, like what, in fact, it was—
a form of gratitude
which when last it came
drifted like a meadow lit by torches
of cardinal flower, one of whose crimson blooms,
when a hummingbird hovered nearby,
I slipped into my mouth
thereby coaxing the bird
to scrawl on my tongue
its heart's frenzy, its fleet
nectar-questing song,
with whom, with you, dear mother,
I now sing along.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRb2ZbBiME3f552u7AIyMeDNg_0de0j2DSkWexeknNmN5T6DKtD3A0EIHU7BMGOhPhYF8fIm68pb1EYjdqxgDgZRrSP_YIRz2r0ISb3lawjCvfxkFIKwSSGQZvIxQ-DQGqe7y7ZaUvJ8s/s320/111015_gay_ross_075_605.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.