I’m sure this is not the last one.
Not the last time I will conjure
you up out of ashes to a petite
woman wearing the knit sweaters
I remember from childhood.
When I think of you it is not
in head scarves or with bags under your eyes,
it is in a business suit wearing high heels
that clicked out of the house while
I was barely awake on school days.
It is of a mother in a summertime garden dress
with dirt beneath her fingernails, a basket
of cucumbers on the table.
I’m sure this is not your last poem
because I hold you under my tongue
like a lozenge, like communion;
this is your body, I have your blood
coursing through me so that when I get cut,
I cry not for the pain
but for your slow leakage.
Even my period is dreaded. But as long
as Thanksgivings exist and cucumbers
begin on the vine,
you are still alive. Still beating through me
waiting for me to choose my life.

01/18/2007

Posted on 01/19/2007
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky