“Requiem" winner of Pat Schneider Poetry Prize, Peregrine 2012 |
I wish what remains was
graceful as the curve of a shell
hollowed by salt, that when
I put the spoon to your mouth
you know me.
Only
the present amazes you. Not
a blessing this wrackline
of wheelchairs in the day room,
aides who call you hon. You hum
to birds you see on the floor,
one hand gripping the other.
~~~~
More than the week
counting each breath,
whispering, Let go,
go home, stroking your arm, more
than you've ever been touched.
The work of death began with
an apple seed, tiny black bead fallen
to earth, encoded to bear fruit, to
fall again. Before dawn
in the orchard, deer drift like shadow ships,
eat what's left, then scatter
silent as ghosts.
~~~~
To your grave I bring
a white stone soft
as the skin of your hand.
The cool oval grazes my palm
and ring finger pale from
the absent band.
I reduce you to this shape,
complete as an egg,
tumble you in my hand, mother,
a small weight.
(c) Gail Thomas
graceful as the curve of a shell
hollowed by salt, that when
I put the spoon to your mouth
you know me.
Only
the present amazes you. Not
a blessing this wrackline
of wheelchairs in the day room,
aides who call you hon. You hum
to birds you see on the floor,
one hand gripping the other.
~~~~
More than the week
counting each breath,
whispering, Let go,
go home, stroking your arm, more
than you've ever been touched.
The work of death began with
an apple seed, tiny black bead fallen
to earth, encoded to bear fruit, to
fall again. Before dawn
in the orchard, deer drift like shadow ships,
eat what's left, then scatter
silent as ghosts.
~~~~
To your grave I bring
a white stone soft
as the skin of your hand.
The cool oval grazes my palm
and ring finger pale from
the absent band.
I reduce you to this shape,
complete as an egg,
tumble you in my hand, mother,
a small weight.
(c) Gail Thomas