XXVIII

 

Then, late, you longed to praise. To rake
weeping the wormed earth of her, and praise it.
Your naked wrists shining white and savage
in the cold cemetery dawn, fields smouldering
in the beyond. Grief. To praise the wet simple
stretching of the mind, your mother wading
her gardens at noon, the grey shape of her
hand ghosting a trellis, even the afterwards, you
damning her rhododendrons in the smoky July dusk
and meaning her. All of it. Death in her ribs
like a fire which fed on nothing and did not die.
The world does not know us by our hearts. Yes,
her heart, you sigh. Weighing the fist-sized bounty.
Amazed. Grieving importantly. Yet glad.
That untempered fire burning and burning
in the golden fields of your second life.

 

From Anatomy of Keys by Steven Price. Copyright © 2006 by Steven Price. Reprinted by permission of Steven Price and Brick Books.