My mother never liked candles.
Twice they were responsible
for a childhood blaze.
Now, like a candle,
her life wanes.
Her lips form soundless shapes
on January 9th,
"Happy Birthday."
She smiles bright and sleepily
even when she's held me to
her swelling belly
after I cried to "You are my sunshine," on the guitar.
She mouths, "I love you, "
as if she's drifting.
Sailing on the lip of a parting boat
and I am her shore.
The ocean between us grows by the hour.
Her glow extinguishes
with every breath,
her soul relinquished,
lying dazed, unfocused, silent –
she becomes far.
Her body rancid,
we count the days,
her wick dims placid.
A piece of my heart,
a piece of her goes.
I pray God carries her
afloat like music notes,
as she slowly sets like a sun,
into a gentle wisp of smoke.
Tallow lessened into rest
until her time has run.
Ended to infinite slumber,
from ember to ashes,
a votive that has un-mothered.
– written in February 2018
YOU ARE READING
A votive that has un-mothered
PoetryA collection of grief poems from losing my mother to cancer. I may or may not keep this up here. I doubt there's any audience for this kind of thing on this site. Trigger warning. Lots of raw imagery in these poems. You can follow Rachel's work on...
