The Catholic Thing
HOME        ARCHIVES        IN THE NEWS        COMMENTARY        NOTABLE        DONATE
Holy Print E-mail
By Mary Szybist   
Friday, 17 January 2014

Spirit who knows me, I do not feel you
fall so far in me,
 
do not feel you turn in my dark center.
 
My mother is sick, and you
cannot help her.
 
My beautiful, moon-faced mother is sick
and you sleep in the dark edges of her shadow.

 
Spirit made to
know me, is this your weight
in my throat, my
chest, the breath heavy so I hardly
breathe it?
 
I do not believe in the beauty of falling.
 
Over and over in the dark I tell myself
I do not have to believe
in the beauty of falling
though she edges toward you,
saying your name with such steadiness.
 
I sit winding blue tape around my wrists
to keep my hands from falling.

 
Holy Ghost, I come for you today
in this overlit afternoon as she
 
picks at the bread with her small hands,
her small rough hands,
the wide blue veins that have always been her veins
winding through them.
 
Ghost, what am I if I
lose the one
who’s always known me?
 
Spirit, know me.
 
Shadow, are you here
splintering into the bread’s thick crust
as it
crumbles into my palms, is that
you, the dry cough in her lungs, the blue tape on my wrists.
The dark hair that used to fall over her shoulders.
Fragile mother, impossible spirit, will you fall so far
from me,
will you leave me to me?
 
To think it
is the last hard kiss, that seasick
 
silence, your bits of breath
 
diffusing in my mouth
 

 
CONTACT US FOR ADVERTISERS ABOUT US
Banner
Banner
Banner
Banner
Banner
Banner
Banner
Banner
Banner