Grace

Mother, eighty-four, took Uncle
James for a ride yesterday.
Drove her brother to the cemetery
To visit Daddy and Mike.
After, she called their flowers lovely,
Then asked, "Where's Daddy?
Where is my Husband?"
*
For the first time in fifteen years
I dream of Mike, him driving up
In Mother's big Oldsmobile,
Then waiting. We talk, he nods.
Now, I realize he has come
For Mother. As the old ones say
To take her home. I go to her
Bed, grab her hand. I'm waking,
Mother's hand cooling in mine.
*
April 15, 2009

Today, my little sister and I
Will go to select a coffin
For Mother. Eighteen years ago,
I went with Mother to choose
Mike's. Yesterday, my Mother died.
Like a kaleidoscope twisted,
And twisted, the world
Broken, scattered bits of glass.
*
I dreamed of Mother a couple
Of nights ago. She was blond,
And slim, walking by a lake.
The dream was in slow motion,
Washed in silver. A ballet.
A friend offers, she wants you
To know everything's okay,
That in death we're young again.
And me, the dead don't look
Back, that is their earned grace.