home about Kate poems Light to Light poems June Bug

Mother


Most losses add something
nightlight or silence,
a house in hot islands.
We repair to language, the conch
suffocating on the beach.

We talk about anything.
Smart cigarette. Silver lighter.
My father wore a gray hat to the office,
home too chaotic to love.
But he worshipped her nervy synapses,
her darkness a panther,
her lightness a party.
The losses leave

holes, more holes. She pulled
taffy at Christmas.
Jesus meant it to be.
Perfect, ironed sheets,
Sunday lamb dinners
with white folded napkins,
so right.

Vacuuming in your
bathing suit, so wild.
I miss you,
your broken last child.