The Last Poem About My Mother
That Sunday dress drifts
in peaceful, paisley grace
towards the kitchen. Contends
with the view—this bare window
so far from Heaven. It rests
its elbows, swirlings of purple
and of blue, upon the countertop.
Examines the sink’s cracked corner
of white tile. Turns on the water
—rushing, rushing, rushing—
Remembers the sound its own mother made
as she lay rattling
like a bell
the incoming tide.