Poetry Magazine
To His Mother, Whose Name Was Maria
Invoked every sundown, it’s you, painted on clouds
rouging our treasured plain and all who walk it,
with leaf-fresh kids and women damp from traveling,
city-bound, in the radiance of a just-stopped shower;
it’s you, mother eternally young, courtesy of death’s
plucking hand, rose at the fragrant point of unpetaling,
you who are the alpha of every neurosis, every torturing anxiety,
and for this I give you gratitude for time past, time present, time future.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2010).
Poem Categorization
SUBJECT Living, Parenthood, Death
Poetic Terms Elegy, Free Verse
If you disagree with this poem's categorization, make a suggestion.
Your results will be limited to content that appeared in Poetry magazine.
