The face of my dead mother comes to me at the strangest times.
The last time was in a yoga class.
I don’t know, maybe that’s not so strange.
Dead man’s pose.
Dead woman’s face.
Dead woman’s daughter in dead man’s pose
spilling over with grief.


My belly didn’t convulse as with my usual crying.
It’s just liquid this time,
like her face in my head turned on the spigot
in my tear ducts.
Little drips of ocean out the corners of my eyes,
onto my cheekbones,
onto my shoulders,
onto the mat where I lie
remembering the time I told her I hated her,
the time I made fun of her behind her back with my friend Rose,
the time I asked my daddy what I’d look like if she wasn’t my mommy
and was disappointed by his answer
that I wouldn’t be me
without her.

3 Comments, Comment or Ping

  1. Sarah

    The more I know about you, the more I like you.
    Excellent poem.

    May 1st, 2013

  2. Wow. It just hurt to read this poem. You are so gifted with words, Kay. Such an expression of sorrow.

    May 1st, 2013

  3. I am learning about your mother through your poems, Kay. She must have been really something.

    May 1st, 2013

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