Perennial
First spring rain and I can’t begin a line like this again
without remembering you were here this time last year.
When I think of being a mother, my mind goes blank
like a mountain. How little I know about things that grow
no matter what. I wanted to hold this illusion forever,
so each time grief came, I closed my eyes and let
sleep in. But Brother, what do you call a plant that lives
more than a couple of years? Scars from a fryer on
your arms, and others I couldn’t question, held me
briefly and many times must have plucked me
from the ground. Everything I want you to know
you already know. There’s perennial, there’s infinite.
Then there’s your absence, showing up like a bird’s
call, or the pause between droplets on the ground.
