Nana Sleeps

Midnight call – the hospice nurse.
Perched in her tin bed like
A marionette, 
Live eyes flash in her dead face.
I am remembered – my name forgotten.
Cancer feasts on the buffet of
Her liver, lungs and brain.
I crawl into the bed, spooning her.
I stroke her damp hair and start to sing
Words from a lullaby she cooed to me
A thousand years before.
She joins me –
A guttural rumble.
These words came from her mother to her,
And then from her to me.
Now they travel full circle.
The old woman is the infant,
And I her mother.
With the words that welcomed us both,
I sing her out of this world.

Margarine

The grinding poverty of those lean days
Clung with her still
In the age of abundance.
She rinsed out jelly jars
For drinking glasses
And saved margarine containers
For cheap Tupperware.
Canned goods nearly burst
From her groaning pantry shelves.
There was food laid up for many winters,
But few snowfalls were left.
Dented cans of soup and
Neatly stacked margarine bowls
Were her only legacy.

The Doll House

Thirty years at the pickle factory,
Married to a man who liked
His whiskey and his TV.
When he died, she put his ashes
On top of the old TV.
Now he had to watch her shows.
They never had children,
But her babies were everywhere –
Fragile porcelain dolls in every room.
No room for them at the nursing home.
She chose her twelve best.
When she died, the janitor
Tossed the dolls in his bin,
Their shattered faces staring up
Like abstract art.

Wider

They say there is nothing like
The pain of childbirth.
She discovered that
Twenty-four years ago.
Today, the surgeons will
Spread her chest wider than
Her birth canal ever was.
Again, she says the same prayer,
Asking to endure, to survive,
And to bless the life of her baby,
Now full-grown in another city.

The Empty House

Last summer they danced at
Their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
Her cheeks flushed,
She felt like a new bride.
Friends and family 
Gathered to share the celebration.
Today, she comes home from his funeral.
Not so many gathered to 
Share the somber mood.
Now, alone in the house,
She struggles to fill the silence
Of half a century.

Fifty-Three Dollars

In Memory of Rosa Parks

She sits alone on the refurbished bus,
Surprised by how many have come.
Three cities vie to host her services
While politicians the world over
Pontificate upon her passing.
But where were they when she needed them?
Who came to her defense in 1994?
He broke into her home and beat her –
Stole fifty-three dollars to feed his crack pipe.
She smiles wearily at the line of faces
As her bus pulls away to its final destination.

The Bittersweet Gift of Dying Slowly

The Moon casts her envious eye
Upon the fertile Earth.
All the sacred mothers sleep –
Above and below the soil.
Daily, they spread the disease of life,
Carrying contagion in their bellies.
Humbly, they smile, 
Knowing the cure is guaranteed.
Each one an eternal hourglass,
Trickling to the destination of her forebears.
This is the bittersweet gift,
The knowledge of the seasons,
Passed mother to daughter
In short, mortal spurts
That span eternity.