I Bring My Mother Flowers
A rag doll
in your wheelchair.
Go away, you command,
eyelids shut.
Paper skin, I touch
a bird-like forearm.
Mom, I murmur–
my name is
long forgotten.
It’s too late
for guessing relatives
in black and white photographs,
for drawing tulips
in worn sketchbooks.
Napkin tucked under blouse,
fingers
that braided my hair
around a plastic cup,
juice spilling down
your lap.
Lost to you,
succulent mushroom risotto,
Armstrong’s gravelly croon,
the earthy scent of forest
after rain.
Once, you laid
your head on my
ten-year old shoulder,
murmuring secrets
too mature for my ear.
Always the steam beneath
your tight-lipped smile,
mustn’t slam the door,
reject your denial.
Don’t regret
that drink I tossed,
when you lost
the girl you wished
I could be.
A sunflower towers
then tilts,
its petals shrivel to fade,
as you sink into
your seedling self,
without me.
Om Shanti Mother Yogi
Your ocean eyes winked as you
rose from lotus position,
all five-foot, eighty pounds,
to embrace me—yet again.
For twenty years,
twice a week
we faced each other,
you, murmuring Thich Nhat Hanh,
your tingsha bells cleansed my
fitful mind.
Eyes closed, lulled
by cassette waterfalls,
we began our trance,
our dream-dance of
pandiculation, breath
and release.
Oh Savasana!
Reclaiming my sacral chakra–
to breathe orange sunbursts
into my belly and pelvis.
And when my thoughts
strayed dark,
how you knelt beside me,
laying your warm, wrinkled
hands onto my shoulders.
Unhurried, a gentle,
ancient clock, you
rotated around me,
first hip, then thigh,
then head, propped in
your glowing hands,
chanting Om Namaha Shivaya
into my newborn ears.
Phyllis Rittner writes poetry, flash fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work can be found in the Journal of Expressive Writing, Burnt Breakfast, Dragonfly Arts Magazine, Roi Faineant Press, Paper Dragon, Verification, and others. She is a member of The Charles River Writer’s Collective and can be reached on Facebook here.
Sparks of Calliope 