347

I could not see your face
You stare into my eyes from photographs,
still touch the plastic tube that tethered you
to life. Once you and I were tethered too,
shared blood and breath, until you cut my cord
and let me go. I strain to see your face,
but my mind is like this burial ground–
its markers smashed by boys, its secrets told
by settling graves and undulating earth.
Two months ago, before you died, I held
your face and hands, the way these graves once touched
a parish church. The river took the church,
but left these graves along the railroad track–
they’re only found by those who seek them out
the way I search for you in memory.

My mother’s hand

In my palm
the hospital bracelet
the nurse snapped, thoughtlessly,
to your wrist, as if I still see
the relief of veins on your hand,
like the vascular web
on the petal of a wilting orchid
before it dries and falls
like paper.

 

Roxanne Kent-Drury

 

 

Aus: Christiane Frohmann (Hg.), Tausend Tode schreiben, Berlin: Frohmann, E-Book, 2014 bis heute
#1000tode #tod #sterben #trauer

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