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I thought to tell you:  you should write about your mother dying.  
About the slow, slippery event of it.
How every possible solution
slipped from your fingers,
like something I struggled with in cooking class,
except I can't remember what it was.  
Something almost slimy, barely palatable.  
Unfixable.


You should capture the words the doctor used
to explain away her crumbling spine.  
As if a part of you that just disintegrates can be explained,
like how we're losing  California.

She knew, she knew
but didn't tell us.
Waiting until it was too late
refusing to be saved.
Ever stoic, isolated,
alone.

What was that thing I couldn't hold on to?

Reviews

[...]

. wow ... i so know the emotion that you so brilliantly and poetically speak of ... i have felt it when i was struggling to write about something and just couldn't ... superbly written and expressed, dear poet ...