Posted in Lanscape of Loss, Markers, My Bonnie

Cricket Song

the windows open on the first warm June night–humid and occupied–with the sound of crickets–serves as a time machine

Like the hour of the night in which I wake to write,
I was 11 going on 12,
which is to say, what I knew, I knew
through the body.

So that even after my mother came back,
and I relaxed again in her steady presence,
I did so at a loss to her.

Not the loss of the bottle.
But the word: NO.
Her sense of self, beyond role.
A small bit of wild seeking space to take hold.

Barely in her thirties.
A mother of 4.
I should have let her go.

But we needed her.
I needed her.
And so she stayed.

Until she was a mother of 6.
Until she disappeared,
little by little,
from the inside.

Until the flame,
left unattended,
burned like wild fire
through our lives.

Posted in Lanscape of Loss, My Bonnie

my mother’s table

The house is silent.
The children asleep.
The kitchen empty.

The light above the stove welcomes me home,
even here, in this new house, still a stranger.

My mother’s bedroom
with the man who was first my classmate
is upstairs, with dark sheets,
overlooking the bay.

The kitchen counters, the floors, even the table
are empty
of crumbs
tonight
Whispering to me
at 19
and later at 27
and before at 13 and 11
and even now at 52
in my own hushed and tidied kitchen
sixteen years after we slept in the space where her table stood
on the night she took her last breaths…

All is well.
Rest easy.
She is sober.
Today.