Spell of Motherly Resurrection

Dip a pocket watch and a sparrow’s feather
into a bowl of saliva collected from her sleep
long ago when she was alive.

Kiss a sealed envelope with her name scribed on it
and distill that into the mixture.

Stare at her picture until three tears take the plunge.

At this point you have a time machine. Travel
back to your fifteenth year
and let her in your locked door; let her help you
through the fear and trembling. At twenty-one,
after she compares her hands to her missed mother,
liken your hands to hers. At twenty-eight,
November 6, 2006, stand where she collapses
in the bathroom. Your step-father runs right through you.

Be there and by God, let go. Let her go the way of all flesh.
And return.

Stir her purple wool sweater into the pot. Let her scent
of Prell and cigarettes float to the ceiling.

And that’s all you’ll get; I’m sorry.
But you know with your sorcerer’s heart
that you have her hands; her blood
wanders through your veins.

Next, hold the pot up to the sky.
A sparrow will fly down and kiss your eyelashes,
take the handles, and fly away.

You’ll look at the clock on the wall:
it is November 7th, one day after
you move on with your life.

02/11/2008

Posted on 02/12/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky