ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER AT MIDSUMMER

June in the north is a convocation

of life: a barely dipped sun, a shower of birdsong

and a suddenness of flowers.

My mother's room is still. She turns her eyes

at the call of rain geese: out of decay

the blue bird-brightness of her gaze

holds summer's tincture.

Time's at a standstill now: for years

she's chased and bullied it, imposed upon it,

filled it to the brim.

But now the pendulum is set

to pause at every turn.

She turns her eyes again, following

the birds' flightpath. Momentarily

they lift her world beyond

its withering perimeter.

I sit prepared, yet unprepared:

it is momentous, this threat of separation;

alternately focusing

and then eliminating thought.

Unfinished conversations hover: words

have an all or nothingness

about them. We lapse into a silent vocabulary

of eye and hand, a collusion of smiles.

I watch her breath flicker

ever more feebly, until at last the moment comes

unhurried

unremarkable: one final sip of June

then quietness.

Suddenly the rain geese call

wildly as they pass,

but no eyes turn.

~Christine De Luca