Torii Gate,
Knobs Haven Cemetery,
Retreat, Day Two

       — for my mother, Marien

Among so many markers anchored in Kentucky
grass, this one newly carved, my mother’s twin
in death.

She, too, would now be 91, gone
these 24 years. I still have her birding
guide in Portuguese, I remember, listening
to these songs I can’t identify. So many
stones, dates erased by time, wind, lichen
growing, the ledger slowly disappearing.
In another two years I will be older
than my mother lived to be.

Will my lungs fail me as yours did? Is there something
seeded in my anatomy, too, that will creep up, take me
down? O suffering Jesus. O sorrowful Marien—
your death wish finally caught up with you
when you no longer sought it. Sixty-seven
candles on your last birthday cake, no breath
to blow them out.

This afternoon I walked
through this pointless gate that keeps
nothing out and wondered at its purpose—
carved with pineapples, a sign of welcome,
with no fence on either side. At dusk, I passed
back through, followed my shadow
to the waiting room.

*

Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, photographer, and assistant editor at Gyroscope Review. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and anthologies. Recent poems can be found in Minyan, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Her photos have appeared online and in print, including one which served as the Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge prompt in 2019. She has two books, Alinea, and her most recent, co-written with Alan Walowitz, In the Muddle of the Night. In addition, she also frequently collaborates with San Diego artist Judith Christensen, most recently on an installation entitled “Mapping Our Future Selves.”