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His Mother Asks Him to Forget the War

My father sits at the table listening
to the photos spread before him
the last one whispers I am your mother
hold me I am dying remember
that spring when your father died
before the war before my death
became mixed with your dying

I dressed in black sold flowers
in the village felt myself dying
in tongues and prayed for deliverance
for your birth for you to hold me
to remember me nothing else mattered

I knew it then and know it
still, just hold me, look at my face
make sense of the life I lived
just hold me, hold me, anything

 

©1999 John Guzlowski

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