("Tree Rings" by Tony Hong, pen and ink)
I remember Mama's belly when she
quickened with my last brother
The dropping curve of it, and her
drained face, how she stopped smiling
I am the only human alive now
who can remember this, with her name
attached to all it meant. My memory
matters to me, but who else? The dust
that blows down garden rows is
from bones of women who were treasured
like I did Mama. I am supposed
to feel safety in a world where
erasure is continuous. I would look at her
that autumn and say "I love you"
hoping the grey would lift, for once.
copyright Maggie Jochild, written 5 March 2012, 12:10 a.m.
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1 comment:
Poor little girl... poor Mama.
Who else? The unknown readers for whom this will touch a chord.
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