POEM FOR
MY MOTHER
I have not done justice
to my mother,
The sweep of her life,
How when young, she was
young,
In a country, on a
farm, and other children,
And I will never know
their names,
I have forgotten to ask
so much,
How lazy have I been!
Now that she is going,
Out of this room, where
we can see her,
Where she can be talked
with, now that she is
Leaving the scene of
all our disputations,
All the tomfoolery of
this world, and the music
She listened to, her
cooking, her reading,
Her studies at McGill,
those meticulously marked
Textbooks, the kisses,
the childbirth, the sons,
Jordan, the colds, the
flying to China,
The mourning,
lovemaking, waking to make instant
Coffee, the long
discussions about serial killers,
About our ancestors,
about Uncle Sandy and Port
Daniel, the summers,
the winters, the cross-country
Skiing, the wedding
photos, the modelling career,
The rages, the
laughing, sometimes, the criticism
Of certain TV shows,
the gardening, the love of dogs,
The love of cats, the
swimming out so far,
I have not done justice
to my mother,
I must begin to make a
start of it, this gathering
Of what her life was,
and somehow, compress it all
Into a space no bigger
than a page, or some earth,
Or a leaf, like the one
she sent me, from Canada,
Upon hearing I could
not have children; and why do we
Try to capture a life,
tell a story of a life, what is our concern?
Are we sad at the
going, at the losing, at the constriction
Of our knowledge, our
chances to learn more?
I know nothing I was
not told, or didn’t see,
I am trying to do
justice, as if an injustice has been done,
And I think it has been
– I think such a person, so much
Of her being taken
away, all at once – I find it monstrous,
And I know it is the
way of all things, the rushing away,
The ruination of our
snow forts with the first sunbursts of April,
I see it all, the
quarrels, the lost opportunities, the love
Of Cohen, Trudeau
(père), of trees, and lakes, of rain,
The love of the sea,
the love of travel, of her husband,
The few friends, the
strong views, the constant searching
For lineage, for
ancestry, for a sense of belonging, her life,
Her father the great
tall pole-vaulter, her stern smart mother,
Her brother, her
sisters, her childhood among animals,
Born during the second
world war, born at the worst moment,
Somehow surviving,
falling in love, young mother in a sportscar,
How did you do it, how
did it all come together, and all the papers,
The collected, curated
papers, and documents, the careful study,
The years of mourning,
the years of swimming, this
I can only summarise,
list like Whitman, who you loved,
Especially his lilacs,
when they last bloomed, and do so here again,
As I ask them to
appear, as I ask all of Lincoln’s lilacs to come.
To surround your dying
time, to bear you up, and flow around you,
In their mystery, in
their scent, as you are deserving of no less,
As you are my mother,
and I thank you, finally, with the flowers
From the poem you read
me, how often, thank you, how poetry
Flowed from you to me,
the electric gift you gave, and saved me with.
December 8, 2024, London
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