The last time I ever said your name,
I was much too careless with the syllables—
Your sounds slipped off my tongue so easily,
Like water spiraling rose patterns down
A drain, or wind stealing silver seeds
From a dandelion clock—but how was I
To guess you'd never catch your breath again?
I wish I'd packed the final curve and vibration
Of your speak-worn letters with all the warmth
Of a life cherished beyond
narrow sentences
of flesh.
*A poem for my mom, who passed suddenly and too soon in 2008.
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.