Mother

It's the recurring scent
in the whitened stems
of Gardenias, 
melting into the moon
one a day, too soon

A sorrow that bids my heart
to wretch-

The kind of grief
that turns ghosts
back
to men
and man, to Dominion.

As though I'd never known
anything
beyond the sharp awareness
of drowning in the drowsy quicksand
of the hourglass-
swimming across those tempered dunes
and waves
to clasp the curves
I cannot climb

(It would not have me, 
not this time)

I welcome you, friendly Mourning
with an eager wink
a fleck of sage,

The laughs we'd share
over tea,
A boiling kettle, brewing black
(Humor will not bring her back)

Awaiting the days 
to endow sugar, and cream
but discovering solely
evaporating steam