Laura Grace Weldon

I Think I See My Dead Mother

Mom, I nearly cry aloud as you drive past
in the opposite lane. I glimpse your soft gray hair
barely holding a curl, the dark floral dress
you save for going places, and I want
to make an illegal u-turn, speed after you,
honk till you pull over.

The day of your funeral I stood and spoke
but I wasn’t there
I was with your body, already ash.
That night I begged you to come back.
For a moment, you did,
younger than I’d known you
radiantly alive, dancing in a field of blossoms.

That vision holds me, though not
like your embrace. I’m glad
you’re frolicking in bliss
instead of commuting
along Lorain Road in Cleveland.
But Mom, I still
want to make that u-turn.


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