Drape All the Mirrors

-
Julia Wilson Carroll
















 a poem for my aunt
by Ken Ireland


I sit by the phone and wait for word that she has died,
ready to cry.
But the news is still the same: she is resting comfortably.
If she has lucid moment, yes,
I will tell her that her nephew from California loves her.

When we last spoke I was 10.
If that is how she remembers me, I will not complain or correct.
She only complains that the fall had blurred her eyes.
She could no longer call the pitch strike or ball.
Keep you eye on the ball, you are the best aunt in the world.
My last words.

It was just a spill that an ordinary person could have walked off,
but it shattered her back and pelvis.
Unable to speak, she pointed to the legal paper she had prepared.
The priest was called. He forgave, prayed and left.
An intern hauled out the tubes while my father stood
expecting her last breath.

15 days later, nurses and doctors admire the body’s desire to survive
while she lies waiting patiently for her hereafter now.

There is no looking back, no food, no water, no death.
I will drape the mirrors and exaggerate stories of no hitters.

Judy Carroll died in hospice care, Tuscon Arizona, noon May 13, 2006


to read more of my poems

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

“If Adam Picked the Apple”

-
by Danielle Coffyn If Adam Picked the Apple There would be a parade, a celebration, a holiday to commemorate the day he sought enlightenment. We would not speak of temptation by the devil, rather, we would laud Adam’s curiosity, his desire for adventure and knowing. We would feast on apple-inspired fare: tortes, chutneys, pancakes, pies. There would be plays and songs reenacting his courage. But it was Eve who grew bored, weary of her captivity in Eden. And a woman’s desire for freedom is rarely a cause for celebration.
Read more

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

-
Image
Detail from Audubon Plate 121 Snowy Owl by Mary Oliver Coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light, like an angel, or a Buddha with wings, it was beautiful, and accurate, striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings — five feet apart — and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow — and then it rose, gracefully, and flew back to the frozen marshes to lurk there, like a little lighthouse, in the blue shadows — so I thought: maybe death isn't darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us — as soft as feathers — that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, not without amazement, and let ourselves be carried, as through the translucence of mica, to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow, that is nothing but light —
Read more

DREAMS

-
by Mary Oliver All night the dark buds of dreams open richly. In the center of every petal is a letter, and you imagine if you could only remember and string them all together they would spell the answer. It is a long night, and not an easy one— you have so many branches, and there are diversions— birds that come and go, the black fox that lies down to sleep beneath you, the moon staring with her bone-white eye. Finally you have spent all the energy you can and you drag from the ground the muddy skirt of your roots and leap awake with two or three syllables like water in your mouth and a sense of loss—a memory not yet of a word, certainly not yet the answer— only how it feels when deep in the tree all the locks click open, and the fire surges through the wood, and the blossoms blossom. If you want to read more of Mary Oliver’s poems, here are some that I like.
Read more