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My mother is alive again
in my dreams.
And so is my father,
though they rarely appear together.
In one variation
my mother returns to visit,
her cancer healed.
We talk for a bit & she whispers
Don't tell your father I was here.
I ask her why she doesn't stay,
admit, embarrassed,
I thought you were dead
No, theres' no such thing & laughs lightly
though she can't explain why her visits
are so infrequent.
Immortality makes sense at night.
My father's heart seems strong again
as he rushes around with purpose.
Sometimes he tells me not to worry.
It will be alrght.
My mother though is still frail,
and we hold each other, rocking.
In the morning I'm startled that
I remember her touch—
the exact pressure of her hand on mine—
and what she smelled like.
by Myna Wallin
from: Vulnerable Positions, ©2002
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