Triturate

published in The Lake Poetry Magazine

My mother has held 

a lantern 

for so long, 

in wait, 

in wait. And 

I have waited 

with her 

for the wind 

to shift, 

or God 

to rise out 

of the graves 

of our ancestors 

and answer. 

And 

answer. The mountain 

is visible 

from both our 

houses. And 

maybe 

she remembers 

her grandfather 

dressing 

in white robes 

to go there, but 

she doesn't 

say. 

Dragging the ground 

to seventy, I see 

the candle 

in her pupil flicker, 

the dark circle 

at the center 

growing larger, and 

like the others 

before her, 

she is poised 

to forget 

ours names.

Author's Note

2016