• Cycles


    “You can’t remember how many nights
    or days or cycles you’ve picked yourself up
    from countless falls.” ~ Luisa A. Igloria, “Way Station”

    for my mother

    before your attending doctors
    could bore a hole in your throat
    to attach tubes to a life-sustaining machine,
    you waged your silent
    protest by dying at the hour of
    great mercy, the hour i was away
    from your bed, the hour i chose
    to indulge in a siesta elsewhere
    to make up for days, some nights
    i hovered over you like a dutiful
    daughter, a role
    alien to me

    nothing in your sudden departure
    in cruel May prepared me or those
    closest to you for this dystopian
    universe we now inhabit:
    the cheapening of human lives,
    killings to the right of us,
    killings to the left, to the front
    and behind us, duct-taped corpses
    fouling the night, the bitter wails of
    new widows and orphans, bald men,
    bewigged men, their bald-faced lies,
    their armies of trolls scrutinizing,
    deciphering our increasingly secret hieroglyphics

    they say this downward cycle of darkness
    is but temporary, depending on
    a leader’s term of office

    if this churlish despot leaves
    through a possible resistance,
    will Enlightenment follow?

    even you in your grave, Mother, would
    chide me for clinging to a child’s naivete
    but let me hang on to this belief, so written
    in Ecclesiastes, that all things under heaven,
    on this earth, serve a purpose


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