Birth

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.