In the summer
In the long trip back,
In the hard visit,
In humidity,
In failure and impatience, and
Worn out with the living,
I drive my mother to the cemetary
To visit the still family.
I turn right at the Bryant plot
And on down the line
To find our name chipped in granite.
Are you cool down there
In your bones, old ones?
Ah, they're neglected:
Weeds, vases overturned.
My mother, who would not
Say so, is sweating.
My mother, who is
A large old baby,
Who has no memory to speak to.
The car ticks in the heat.
Last night I wrapped
A damp sheet around me
As if to break high fever.
I rinse the vase and
Fill it with water.
From here, I see her lurch
From the car, one hand
Clutching at air.
Bad doll to dress and feed,
Ancient bride, see, they've gone
Downstairs before you.
The glare from the slabs
Hurts her. The earth could open,
Poor husk, my tooth and claw.
The water smells like iron.
I will never forget anyone.
I see my mother
As she is now,
Squeezing hard the stems
Of the white, imperial chrysanthemums.
Mayes home page
The sleeper
Good Friday, driving home
I thought about you
The untying of a knot
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