Retreat of Darkness
Above the right ear, the first bite,
sends fingers of darkness across the sphere.
A plague of forgetfulness. I call my mother,
tell her, Look out! The eclipse is caught
center stage in her living-room window. All evening,
the threatened snow holds off. I run in and out
with binoculars, crunching frozen leaves, follow
the progress of the penumbra across the shining, fading
face. From the comfort of her couch, my mother watches, too,
her rising and shrinking dimmed by lights.
When fully occluded, the moon bleeds.
Drizzles luminous tears. The last
edge of darkness hangs on the moon's face
over its left ear, merges degree by degree
with the surrounding night. Slowly evaporates.
Over her right ear, my mother's brain tumor
has grown large as a lemon. Next week, the surgery.
Dancing from foot to foot, I blow the warmth of my breath
into icy hands, and wait until the shadow passes
completely and the moon is bright and whole again.
~ ~ ~
070117c, 3A, 3-5-04; 2A, 11-9-03; 1F, 11-8-03, 1st
earlier draft sent to sent to Women Artist's Datebook 12/03, not accepted
earlier draft sent to Talking River Review 3/4/04, not accepted
P365-07P Project 365 2007 Poetry entry for today
My mother died yesterday.
(c)Mary Stebbins Taitt January 17, 2007