Imagining Her Death

When my mother dies I’ll scrape the earth from her grave
and climb inside.

If she thrusts me back out
am I a girl again?

I wish I could inherit the storm she thumbed
in her raincoat pocket at nine o’clock each Sunday.

Today, clematis’ fingers grip the house,
yellow paint clings to tired walls.

Brick dust seeps through slim cracks
and the evenings fill.

There are fruits on the raspberry bush
and bloody flowers spilling into a long dusk.

She rests, navy scarf around her throat,
massaging words that drown in the noise of the sea.

Do we all become the woman
we swore we would escape?

I search for an answer among the sparrows
finding nothing but soil and worms.

There are grey hairs in the fountain
surfing the ripples like undying silver fish.

I wash my hands and sit on the porch
breathing a prayer into night.