My mother loved the dogwood blooms –
each spring a fresh crucifixion.
And when it flushed wild in the clearing
where our new house stood,
on a stripped skull, quick to erode,
my mother rushed to the dogwood,
cupped each stained white blossom
in her hand and whispered, “forgive, forgive.”
She never went to church anymore,
never again touched her cold dead Mary,
never again begged favor or grace,
not after that first spring
not after the twisted
cursed and giving lumbers
first sprung upon her eyes –
a crucifixion, multiplied,
a hundred times, a hundred Aprils,
on the limbs of a retribution.
Image: Aaron Burden on Unsplash
To me this is so American Devon. There is that sense of fervency and reliance running wild. I love it. You epitomize an element of the unseen but strongly felt.
Thank you, Ray.
I was rummaging around in the cedar chest of memory to find moments of my mother’s life that I found particularly evocative of who she is.
Devon, you have a natural propensity for the written poetic word. Not only in depth, but a pouring out of feeling and well-defined emotion- as if the pen is an extension of your soul. Brilliant!!
Thank you, Lance. I am truly humbled, honored and encouraged to keep plodding on by your words. You’re the best.
Grateful for your kind words, Devon. And, it is a wonderful pleasure.