My mother sat in the shadowing
light of a lamp, eyes closed,
cheek bones that are my bones
in relief, the single sinuous line
of her nose— I have loved her more
in dementia than I have ever known
how to love her before—
her night has been my truth
these many years
yet finally I am no longer afraid
to caress her forehead, as if she were my daughter now.
Mark this truth: I am her, my mother
who has scattered fear
like shattered bone in the tall
grasses of our hair, in the imagined
grave we must fall into.
Edythe, Edythe, your daughter is here.
My mother’s eyes flickered.
I love you she said.
There was the dream
she said come to me
I will be leaving soon.
How can we harness love
to find its measure?
Would one one-hundredth of a teaspoon
tender the heart?
When will I know I have loved my mother
enough to say I love you,
and the gesture, enough for her