I Will Always Wear It
I pull on my oldest sweater.
Twenty years after her death,
my mother’s hands on my shoulders
Together we chose the pattern and colours.
Wool from Philosopher’s Stone Farm:
hand sheared, homespun, botanical dyes.
Her hands, becoming arthritic,
drawing the needles together and apart,
row after row of tight, patterned precision.
Made as a Christmas gift for me.
Paper wrapping, smell of wool,
blue, red, and warmth. The weight of it.
A smile from my mother as she draws back
to see how it looks on. Thank you and thank you
but no touch. Not in this family.
No touch. Not in this family.
See how it looks on. Thank you and thank you.
A smile from my mother as she draws back.
Blue, red, warmth. The weight of it.
Paper wrapping, smell of wool.
A gift for me.
Row after row of tight, patterned precision.
Drawing the needles together and apart.
Her hands becoming arthritic
Hand sheared, homespun, botanical dyes,
wool from Philosopher’s Stone Farm.
Together we chose the pattern and colours.
Twenty years after her death,
I pull on my oldest sweater.
My mother’s hands on my shoulders.
Let us Begin to Hear
If we had true ears,
we would hear the wind awakening the world,
we would know the ocean like a friend,
and we would name by their song
all the birds that fly about us.
If we had true ears
a leaf falling would be heard
as an important noise,
a small elegy to the turning of the season,
a reason to look to the sky.
If we had true ears
lies would fade into darkness
and we would sleep in silence,
awakening to know that our children
would live to be heard
If we had true ears
poetry would enter the world
and we would hear it everywhere
My Father’s Resurrections
I
After surgery in the Prince George Hospital,
the doctor called you
one tough customer, not knowing
that, besides thrombosis,
you were fighting off death rays coming
from the television over your bed,
and Latvians tracking you in the dark.
Against all of these you fought and won,
riding home triumphant
in your son’s F150.
II
In the Smithers Hospital,
with congestive heart failure,
you tried to escape the IV pole,
the ultrasound, the evil nurses,
more dangerous to you
than death itself.
Then for a day, you returned to yourself,
allowed the staff to treat you, even touch you.
Again, you returned home to your old blue chair
and your favourite slippers.
III
You waited for me to come to you in mid-winter.
I brought you salted licorice, blue cheese, and almonds.
I held your pale, twisted hands.
You asked me over and over where I lived,
How long I would stay, if I would leave.
We laughed and sometimes you cried.
I read you to sleep in the afternoon.
Asleep you died and the door closed
on the old stories.
IV
It is spring now, and yesterday in Al’s coffee shop
I sat with someone else’s old father.
I noticed his pale, restless hands, his quiet
deference, his gentle laugh.
You rose in me again.
