Your Beautiful Portrait Stares Back

O Bella Mother

I stepped into the bedroom
You lay exhausted on the bed.
A red silk scarf wrapped your head
As the sunlight cut through
The gauzed window.

One of the last things you said:
“I thought I was going to die last night.”
“You’re still here,” I casually replied.

It broke my heart when
I watched your body turn to dust.
Eighteen hundred days later
Your portrait stares back.

I will myself to cry for you
But I can’t. I feel drenched
In your heavenly passions,
O bella mother.

Yesterday I was apoplectic.
Today,
The coup de grâce
Induces laughter and joy.