ND
1944-2018*

You taught me how to write
it took me too long to write this.

When you died,
the nurses combed your hair

and put your favorite perfume on
your neck.

without you I am nothing
and a ceaseless
mess

but for you
have kept
living

in 1967 you had a daughter,
born dead.

you never visited her
grave  you didn't want to know where it was

but your husband did.
and the first person he told about you was her.

she was born with
lemon yellow curls stuck to her head.

the pain is so much
but not as much as your beauty

i will learn to live without you  as
you would have wanted it

racing matchsticks down storm gutters
i still don't believe in god.

But if there is a hell
that means there is a heaven

I would take eternity of
darkness and iron hot
pokers

if it meant you could be
with your lost daughter
and hold her.