Life Dreams / Lucid Living (c) 2003

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My mother’s birthday is on a Sunday
this year –
She’ll be – let’s see, how old?
Oh, yeah! 75

But to me, she is dead,
even while alive

My mother’s birthday
should mean
nothing to me, seeing as how,
as I said, she’s dead.

But…

I wonder how she’ll
celebrate
this arrival at three-quarters
of a century and all –

Will she, as always,
be on the phone,
a guru to those who
have no idea
that this woman, my mother,
is really quite mad?

Or will she
take her old-woman bones
for a private stroll
along the ocean’s edge?
commune with seagulls? And
breathe the salt air mist of waves?

And why does it matter
to me?

After all, as I said,
to me, she is dead

But will she say “hello”
to passers-by, engage them
in private-life discussions,
catching them by surprise
when the words tumble out?

(But she does not include me
in her intimate group
of strangers – her choice,
never fully comprehended –
but then, again, she is,
as I said, dead,
so her silence should hold
no power to surprise)

***

Will the dead rise up
and greet me, once,
some time before she dies?

Or will she leave,
all words unspoken, all doors
to possibility forever shut down,
locked down tight,
throw away the key?

And why, dear Lord, why –

Oh, please tell me,
why,

It still
really matters
to me