Poetry from Lost Roads PublishersFive poems from Ex Voto
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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
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