OLIVIA
I walk on the edge
of my mother 's grave
sadly touching the rain
as
if
it were her dress
disguised as silk. I
wander on , a shadow
speaks as softly
as my hands
and we must leave off
where it began
the coughing
and my four year old
arms ready to please .
Mother, you would have
made the cold into fire
and your beauty the talk
of the town .
I know death like I know
you, mother ,
leavened bread in the oven,
a dog ,
my sister Irma,
and the neighbors
wailing like our kitchen .
I didn ' t come to this world
to be frightened
yet your death sticks
in my stomach
and I must clean the kitchen
with my hands
and I must wander on
into the night of leavened bread
and pursue truth
like a tube needing air.
