When Flowers Were I n Bloom

When Flowers Were I n Bloom

Sunday

When The Spider Wails (On The Death Of My Mother)





















Because I am angry, I squash it.
Don’t tell me a spider can’t wail.
Its spirit, like a leaf, rolls down the trail
and disappears into the brush.
I swear. I swear. I swear it.
Don’t tell me a spider can’t wail.

In the parlor, in the bell
of this last Holy Sunday,
a wish for one more sermon.
“Why weep,” they ask.
I shrug and say,
“My meta/
physical/
self
dances.
These tears --
these tears --
these tears --”

Among desert flowers
my mother moves
as if she walks on water.
There is no coffin --
perhaps a husband’s immensity,
perhaps a rattle in the whistle
of evening’s immutable light.
There is no coffin --
I swear. I swear. I swear it.
There is no coffin --

In the slant of light, shadows
merge with night --
hear the great bird on it’s flight
to Jerusalem.
And in the brush, the scream
of the spider that I squashed.
Its spirit, like a leaf, rolled down the trail
and disappeared into the brush.
I swear. I swear. I swear it.
Don’t tell me a spider can’t wail.

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