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To His Mother, Whose Name Was Maria

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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)

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This poem originally appeared in the July/August 2010 issue of Poetry magazine

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To His Mother, Whose Name Was Maria

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