Mourningpictures

Mom after five years,
I belive and can't belive you died.
Last night, the wind,
a window opening.
"Mom" I shout half-joke,
"Mom" remembering the strong strange wind
in the  huge maples the night
they called to say you'd gone into a coma.
Tomorow you're fifty-five.
"Mom" I"m thirty two, and they you that lives on in me,
sometimes is not enogh.
Mom  I wear my hair pulled back whith combs
Mom I keep my room neat,exersice.
Mom i ride a horse once a week and keep seeing
you take Grandmas bay mare trough that course of jumps
over and over : I am a child the horse throws you.
In that dusk I being learn what it might be
to lose you, but always you walk back.
Stride back, embarassased,
glasses broken, wet from your fall in the evening,
grass no grey in your black hair.
Mom when I visited your grave in the snow,
 and cold not move from the hillside,
becuse in the cold.
I saw your mouth pinken to living colour and smile at me.
Mom was that real ?
I sit in this room,
orange curtains billowing in the light - flowers, basket,
star stitched trough the amish quilt - magenta, green, blue your colors,
and the dead women plays as if alive, moving her long hands,
making a deep
sinewy river of each delicated  linebaroqe; "Mom", I am thirty two.
The you that lives on me is sometimes not enough ....
The you lives on in me I must learn she is enough.
From this room I see snow.
Tomorow is your birthday.
This is for you.
The snow is melting.
I´ve built a fire.
Mom the fingers of the dead plays as if in some paradise.
And your mouth  pinkens to breathing red and smiles.
Im here, yor daughter wanting.
When there are grey clouds.
I dont mind the grey clouds.
I'm all for you....
All from you.

Ur diktsamlingen.
Legacies.
Skriven av Honor Moore.