In this little universe we lost you last Monday
as sudden as a rabbit darts
across a lawn. As sudden as stars
chase each other in the North.

I step out in public and I look at
strangers going on with their lives.
I want to stop them and say,
"Did you know my mother just died?"

A 2 year old approaches me and I want
to warn him that the mother
he relies on so much, loves so much,
could disappear like a magician's top hat.

I hate seeing any women embrace. I hate the word
'mother' while longing for it. How these
single teardrops start a flood. Permanence
disappears too easily.

Four months ago, I would've gone with you.
Maybe you waited until you knew I'd be okay.
I don't feel okay. I feel pulled apart like
saltwater taffy, stretched over and under again.

Faces approaching me with condolences are
warped and mismatched.
Come back,
Mother, I won't tell anyone I saw you.

11/09/2006

Author's Note: the first poem I wrote after she died on 11-6-06

Posted on 11/09/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky