October 7, 2023

On the 11th anniversary of my mother's death, this one is dedicated to her

It’s the tiny things you remember
when someone meets death
and leaves,

how she was a wildflower,
a poppy at the roadside and
distant in certain seasons.

My nomadic mother,
dancing from desert to desert.
Sometimes she had children.
Sometimes that place stood empty.

I cling to her reflection
like mine, sharp and fractured,
sometimes beautiful in its brokenness.

Until I meet death too,
She will greet me
from the bunches of poppies
swaying in the desert.