After the Funeral
The moon, dumb
as a stone in winter,
pulls like a tide,
making me look
up, when I want
to look away,
making me stop,
when I want to breathe
my own breath again,
tuck my soul back —
startling me
like a naked breast,
pearly as
the porcelain doorknob
in my mother’s house,
where the blinds
stayed shut.
Now the empyrean drapes
are thrown open,
exposing me
to the moon’s
glaring interrogation:
Where did she go?
I wonder if she
hunkers just
on the shadow side —
Mom, the moon
haunts and taunts
me —
Mom,
the moon
is cruel
to me —
Mom?
The sky
has never been this empty.
Published in All We Can Hold, 2016, an anthology about motherhood
