Afterwards
The hospice nurse rearranges
my mother’s face, puts a winter
black dress on her. She becomes
a stone statue, beautiful, strange
no longer compelled to smile.
I can sit, rest with her now, while
the men make jokes in the kitchen
over pale ale and crackers.
*
Tack
I don’t always think about you
leaving, yet as soon as another
week begins, or someone leaves
my office, home, presence,
I do. I am trying to speed up
mourning you. Hammer
it out, get and go, move on.
I can’t. Outside, purple blue
irises bloom. Isn’t that
your favorite color? I remember
learning to sail; capsizing the boat
as my childhood friend, Mike,
steps out onto a floating dock,
telling me, Don’t tack.
Ok, I say, then do.
*
Alison McCabe is a poet, Zen koan practitioner and psychoanalyst in Oakland, CA. She is particularly interested in the intersection of these three domains and how each informs and expands upon the other. She has previously published in the online and print journal, Critica Magazine, and the online journals, Literary Mamas, Really System, and Shrew: Issue 16. Alison can be reached at her professional website: alisonmccabe.com.
Beautiful and moving.