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This phone
This boy
Is going
To be
The death
Of me.
This week has been pretty tough
the line
   between
life and death

   split seconds

the bloodless face
does not respond
to questions
asked too late

in awe
we bow
to the rules of life

realizing
the limits

acknowledging
the truth of the ancients

about
how to cope
with dying
always there

and suddenly gone

too quietly
too fast
  to adapt to the absence
  of your presence

why did you not
go to your check-ups

why did you pretend
to smile
when you knew
you were dying

why

   why

      why
the day you went
   into that other world
the day spring began
is etched into my memory

I know
thousands of mothers die
every day

but this time
it was you

my mother

to bend
to the limits
of our life

hurts

almost beyond words
on the first day of spring
my mother died

she had always loved flowers
and had turned
our interior hallway
into a luscious greenhouse
   father was not always happy
   about the falling leaves

in her later years
when skiing was no longer hers
she hated winters
   their long nights
   their waning sun

she was always longing
   for spring
waiting for the day
the morning sun lit up
the kitchen desk again
in her parents’ house
where she was born
   and had grown old

the night before
I had called and told her
that here in the south
the first flowers were already
   dotting the gardens

she had smiled on the phone
   almost inaudibly
speaking had become difficult

   maybe her last images
   were of colorful spring meadows

today at 7.10 a.m.
my mother died

spring has come
Published in Tint Journal Spring 21
Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
        she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
         little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
             this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
           in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
            Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part

Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened  space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
     naked heart's
            thunder
For my grandfather, badass survivor partisan
who saved my father (and also survived)during the Holocaust by smuggling him out of the ghetto to farmers in a sack of potatoes
My grandmother never made it
Tonight is Holocaust Remembrance Day eve in my part of the world
I slipped up on the word hello
You choked up on goodbye

Our hands lingered but never met
Our minds brushed but never touched

I saw the way your eyes bled
When I said no

You saw the way my soul shook
When you asked

They called you desperate
I called us separate
That friend who doesn't want to be a friend
 May 2016 Isabella Rosemary
Torin
I find joy in my sorrow
Just that I can feel
Anything
At all
At least
I find pleasure in pain

I laugh at my demons
I shout into silence
I cry for my angels
I drown into flames
I shine into darkness

I burn with emotion

I find peace in suffering
Just another test
Everything
At most
I find I overcome

I speak to my ghost
I lean into shadows
I touch without hands
I drown into air
I shine into darkness

I burn with emotion
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