Soon Mother
Will be released into the ocean
She loved.

My mother's bird-lilting voice. Ashes.
Her proud back bone. Ashes.
My mother's body--that picture
Of her as a little girl floating
On the inner tube at Lake Superior.
Ashes. My mother's body old,
Twig arms and legs, organs slowly fading
Like a sepia photograph
Of 1918, the year she was born.
As it was in the beginning
Day of her life, her only struggle
Became breath.

Memory ashes of her calling me in
From play, with a bird whistle
Fashioned only from her hands.
Laughter ashes.    Screaming ashes.

The warm past. The cold present.
Maybe now she is a seagull;
She always wanted
To come back that path.
Maybe some of her ashes
Will find an oyster and
Become pearls,
Glowing and lovely again,
Around the neck of a new woman,
One pearl touching the pulse
Point at the throat which is light
Red as the scent of her perfume.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007