Madeleine Barnes
Dig

I am afraid I will outlive my mother.
The two of us sit on the shore
throwing clementine peels into the sea.

Our bodies burn. We scoop the sand.
I pick up a hard shell lined with mother-of-pearl.
Oysters feed on the seabed, grow on stones.

They are at home on the posts of piers,
on the bark and stilt of mangrove trees.
Their fragility is a survival strategy.

I want her to gather the material she needs
to write her book. I drill ink into my brain.
She says, you taught me how to be a mother.

Too many stars span before us. We tear the rocks.
I dream of knowing my place in her poems
but bury my heart deep in the earth,

tiny gravedigger. I want to be joined
to her words, but how many times are you allowed
to need your mother? Help me with this,
I want to beg her. Help me exit your poem.

From The Literary Nest Archives