It’s the closest we have ever been—
slipping my jeans off, sliding into the shower
with my mother, washing the galaxy
of her back scattered with planets.
Once, she carried me behind that tumor,
emptied those breasts into my mouth.
The body remembers something primal.
I dress and feed her, tell her what to do.
She heeds me now.
It is late November. Outside,
three bronze leaves suspend on the ash.
My mother and I lie down, fragrant
with soap, wake with our bodies
spooned as lovers.
—from Rattle #58, Winter 2017
Mary Morris: “While caring for my elderly mother, out of the ordinary events take place, resulting in new rituals, insights, and inspirations. I literally ran down the road to my house and wrote this poem. The accumulation of these writings have gathered themselves into a manuscript.” (web)