"For the twice dead" - Gail Tyson
Fog wraiths sweep across the road,
swathe our car, headlights hurdling
two-lane blacktop past Amish farms,
shuttered taverns, towards our hotel.
Grudge-hoarder, phone-slammer, my mother
sleeps five miles and five years away.
Her mind, riddled with holes, has made
us whole, can no longer dredge up times
I enraged her, thinks the remote
is a phone. Tonight I’ll listen
to my husband breathing, recall
all those who died to me before:
fellow travelers who swore they’d stay
in touch, best friends who moved too far—
kinship stretched eggshell-thin until
the day I hear, by chance, they are dead—
and her, the parent who cut me off.
Tomorrow we will roll away
affronts that entombed regret, years
wasted that nonetheless thickened
my soul, that help me bear our coming
together, her coming death,
that make love denser than before.