Portrait
A tender elegy for a mother remembered through grief, memory and a portrait that keeps her presence alive long after death.
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.
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