This poem came from the prompt: Where would you go if you could take an elevator to somewhere in your past…
Now that This
is done
She’ll die…
I have never Known
my Body like
This before
that Something
the size of a
Cantaloupe
could Push through
Me
in an Instance
Everything!
He breathes
against me
the Two of us
Come through
a Storm
Crouched
in a Puddle
of blood
Wrapped
in bath towels
Cold,
even though
it is August
Collapsed
into this new
expression
of Separation.
I’d take that
Elevator with him
to Summer’s
End
1957,
To the Curb
of a boarded up Motel.
A covert block
from the cross-shaped
high school
that my mother and I attended,
Two decades spanning
our sophomore years.
I’d find Her
there
Shrouded
in Exhale
Relieved I wasn’t
a Nun
She, in knee socks, buckled shoes,
a shin-length pinafore stretched
across emerging breasts, taking
a drag
of a cigarette
that she’ll
smoke
till the end of
her
Life
~
We lock eyes across time,
and I scream…
“PLEASE! DON’T!
Someday
day you’ll be
My mother
and he’ll
be Your grandson,
and Together we’ll
Watch
you
Die.”
in memory of my mother & friend, Bonnie Kelly Bradley, Christmas Day 1942 to the Feast Day of Mary 2000
The Motherless Muse 
I ache for you and my sons when I read this.
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