to
swallow the charred remnants
of
your bones,
inhale
the ash
from
my palms.
I
want to incorporate you.
But
nothing remains.
Instead
I slide your ring
on
my finger,
a
knuckle of chrysocolla
framed
in silver.
I
drape your scarf
around
my shoulders,
eat
the leftover pineapple
wrapped
in the fridge
still
fresh.
I
read your poems,
seek
out your handwriting,
words
you formed
in
purple ink.
I
talk to myself
as
if you could hear me
"Ampie?"
I ask,
the
tendril of my voice
wrapping
around your name
"Ampie?"
I ask,
with
no words to follow.
I
am a child at bedtime,
voicing
a half concocted question
that
will force you to stay.
My
infant voice grasps the finger
of
the Great Being you already are,
the
one I'm learning to become.
Poignant, Jeny, but with strength beneath that surfaces, especially in your last stanza.
ReplyDeleteLet me share another of Mother's writings, equally poignant, written 9 May 2008:
SOMTHING MISSING
"You are legally blind," the letter stated and my life hasn't been the same since.
I cannot drive my little Honda, so I sell it.
I need to find other transportation to the dentist, doctor, and for shopping trips.
I can't see well enough to use my computer,so I give it to one of my daughters. My television is useless.
Because I cannot see well enough to read,I really feel deprived.I've enjoyed reading books since I was five years old.
At the dining table, someone else reads my menu for me. The only movies I enjoy are musicals.
Magnifiers are helpful to some extent but awkward and tiring to use. I'm thankful for CD's. I can hear poetry, short stories, and--best of all--music.