Poem: My Mother Will Never Die
My mother will never die.
Find her perched on her flaking front porch swing
holiday mug in hand, folgers french vanilla,
doting on her hummingbirds,
thanking her god for crafting such soft creatures,
thanking her god for blessing her with eyes.
When I am eighty five she will pull into work
in her hand me down Subaru, set up shop
in her corporate cubicle and text me “good morning”
and “I love you”.
She will tell me about the kefir she is brewing in a jar
above her double wide dishwasher.
She will tell me about the blue birds and the brown bears
and the mouse that chewed through a wire in the laundry room,
how they’re hanging their drawers in the breeze to dry.
She will tell me that it is okay to take a break,
that my worth isn’t defined by a number
on crisp company letterhead,
that she never had much but look at how pleased she is
with her sun ripe tomatoes and her butterfly bush
and her three children who still call her on the phone.
We will walk together in the country city center,
canes against cobblestone. She keeps a good pace
for one hundred and eight and I am falling behind,
my bones brittled and my muscles waned
but she is in no rush. She waits for me,
says hello to a cloud creme dog and its cotton eyed owner,
says she knows him from the store where she was a cashier,
one of many past lives, an artist and a teacher,
a minister and a mother.
A mother who will outlive us all.
A mother who will never die.