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| Mom and Me at my MFA graduation, 2006 |
On what authority do you
leave
this world? This is not my
first
experience of death, but a
rectangular frame
for my entire life. I cannot
flourish without song,
burning
wildly. I weep and I wait.
The precipice that placed you
in this
world and me in this
afterlife
eases through a vein, while
a sparrow sings in his
striped
garment, full of early light.
Different than the owl,
cloaked in a suit of
darkness,
green and brown, surprised
for the love of one person.
Both witness loss of breath.
Having borne me, you did not
leave the past behind—
you delved into family
history,
discovered cousins, cozied
their feathers in your house.
It rained the first Passover
after Dad died, and I stormed
out,
walked the well-knit paths
leading me from one area
to the next. We could not
agree on the niceties—oven
temp,
amounts of food—almost like
mourning
except we did not talk about
if Dad were still here. And
now,
approaching Passover after
your death,
I have no one to disagree
with,
no one to stand over me
tell me to serve more soup,
clear the bowls,
serve the chicken.
The last fires will
eventually
bow, but for now I cannot
raise my arms, numb.
And seeing “Swan Lake,”
music of my childhood,
intimate as
your warm generous arms
and dark eyes. On stage
Hungarian costumes dance to
a whimsical beat, and the
swans
identical white-clad,
mirrored and multiplied,
move in patterns,
then arms and legs
lay one over the other, long
thin ends
at rest. With each tune, I
return
to what placed me in this
world,
what birthed me and sustained
me.
No, there is no easing
through, no light—
only dusk. And pointed toes
carry the swans,
floating above the stage,
feathered white hair-pieces
snugly in place,
white tutus flowing as
they mourn being turned from
humans,
their lives permanently
changed.
