Dogwood Blood in My Mother’s Palm

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
bloomed dogwood,
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

5 thoughts on “Dogwood Blood in My Mother’s Palm

  1. 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!!

    Like

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