My tomorrows

Let her keep maternal calm

or let the truth steal her sleep?

Let tomorrows keep their lies

or allow her fears to creep? 

 

I sit beneath the oak tree,

where my first steps made her cry,

where Halifax is buried, 

and I learned that all things die.

 

My mother sits beside me 

in the hat that she crocheted,

and I remain frozen by

the confession I’ve delayed

 

*** 

 

What words won’t pierce her phantom womb?

What proof won’t rip her soul in two?

Let me relish in the comfort

of the mother who never knew.

Let her hug with pride, not pity.

Let her cook her infinite meals.

Let her disclose her hopeful plans

—for if I’m silent, they’re still real.

 

Let her dream of my tomorrows—

a long career, my better half,

of the champagne she’s been saving,

the wedding dance we’ll never have.

 

No…

 

Lies will only pierce her heart, and

betrayal will tear her life in two.

Let her relish in the comfort

of cherishing her gone-too-soon.

 

Let her care for her son deeply,

while he is still beneath the sky.

Let her grieve in seven stages,

to ease her mournful goodbye.

 

Let her pray for my tomorrows,

while I’m kneeling by her side,

begging Mary to grant the strength

of when her only son had died.

 

***

 

I sit beneath the oak tree,

stuttering to find my voice,

unsure of what I should say— 

terrified to make a choice.

 

Confusion sinks its spiraled teeth,

my tongue, marooned on the ground.

My heart runs a losing race—

the world shouts without a sound, 

 

as it did when I first pleaded

on that alarming afternoon.

“I’ve abstained from all the causes,

and…and it’s fifty years too soon.”

 

***

 

She sits beneath the oak tree,

where she taught me to move on—

that Halifax was with us,

not forgotten, only gone.

 

She stares into my wept eyes.

My chin quivers with remorse, 

my trembling hands make no moves,

my voiceless lips choose no course.

 

Her smile falls from heaven,

sitting on familiar tomb.

I watch her feel the stillness—

stillness in her phantom womb.

 

She utters my words for me

when my silence said it all.

And stands strong as an oak tree,

like she’d done when I was small.

 

“Let us plan your tomorrows,”

mother says with outstretched hand.

“We live between the rhymes of

reasons we don’t understand.”