Spirit who knows me, I do not feel youfall so far in me,do not feel you turn in my dark center.My mother is sick, and youcannot help her.My beautiful, moon-faced mother is sickand you sleep in the dark edges of her shadow.Spirit made toknow me, is this your weightin my throat, mychest, the breath heavy so I hardlybreathe it?I do not believe in the beauty of falling.Over and over in the dark I tell myselfI do not have to believein the beauty of fallingthough she edges toward you,saying your name with such steadiness.I sit winding blue tape around my wriststo keep my hands from falling.Holy Ghost, I come for you todayin this overlit afternoon as shepicks at the bread with her small hands,her small rough hands,the wide blue veins that have always been her veinswinding through them.Ghost, what am I if Ilose the onewho’s always known me?Spirit, know me.Shadow, are you heresplintering into the bread’s thick crust as itcrumbles into my palms, is thatyou, 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 farfrom me,will you leave me to me?To think itis the last hard kiss, that seasicksilence, your bits of breathdiffusing in my mouth—
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