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

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

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

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

We used to celebrate the fifteenth of May
as the day we first started dating. Though
you thought the fifteenth was the correct date,
we did not start our relationship in May.
We started in June, a few weeks
after my graduation. The fifteenth
of May was the day we first started dating,
but we only dated for a week, and then
you dropped the let’s stay friends bit.  
A month later, we tried again,
and that try lasted for two years.
Perhaps the superstition of our first fifteenth
brought us to where we are, perhaps not.
But the fifteenth of May is in a few weeks,
so where are you, my friend?

© Matthew Harlovic