MOTHER GOING TO HER GOD
as we hold the hand of the dearest death.
The fingers limp, cool, do not pull away,
the motherís eyes opening one last time,
filling with fear and surprise
as they contemplate the daughter
who is unable to close the book
without the need of a bookmark.
never looked prettier,
grey hair curling over her forehead
framing her face, furrowed lines
smoothed in death, blue-green eyes
closed, perhaps by others,
perhaps her own doing, a precaution
as she prepared to enter what she believed
to be the dazzling world of her maker.
We gave the
funeral director a white lace
buttoned-to-the-neck blouse to dress
our mother who had seemed to us
throughout her 95 years almost innocent,
able to see what she wanted, to block out
ugly debris as she sewed for collectible dolls
(one couldnít play with them)
long dresses with puffy sleeves,
putting on their tiny feet
low heeled mary jane shoes
in case they should need to run away.
Lord, Ann Arbor,