This is What it's all About...Isn't it?

This is a reader's reaction on her blog to a poem: "A PILGRIMAGE TO L'ORIGNAL" (below) that was originally published in - July 2003 - in Thunder Sandwich # 21.

"This poem describes exactly my feelings on returning home from Japan to see my grandmother, who was so alive and vital when I left, lying in bed at 99, shrunken to a "changeling" who I could hardly recognize. When she was gone, I tried to spackle the space with my memories, but realized there were not enough to fill the large hole."

In response to your question - Have I written any other poems about my mother's failing health? Yes:


OSTEO - PARADIGM

In a world of perfect bones,
there is no room for hairline fractures,
hip replacements or herniated disks.
Prostheses are non-existent; bones
do not snap like bread sticks
or wear down like soapstone.

My mother can still squeeze my hand
till my knuckles run white and our thumbs
become one. She does not fixate on yellow
biohazards or aluminum walkers. She studies
how long the water will take
to course through irrigation ditches.

In a world of perfect bones,
long after cicadas turn silent
and the calabrian heat subsides,
my mother walks about
on that five foot high retaining wall
that separates her from her garden.


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Published in: August 2004 - Stirring