My Mother Reading in the Land of the Dead by Joe Weil There were ghosts who had come to touch her, hear her musings as she lay there reading aloud from the broken trees. There were those who had come to hear her mispronounce the names of God, each misplaced syllable another wound through which they could have entered, could have tramped barefoot back into life and been risen and at ease. They would have laughed to nudge the snow wet roots of birches, cried out to feel the cold rush against their skins, the sharp quick pinch of thorns, the jays fierce cry, cried out in joy when their blood welled and ran, and listened as she lay there reading from out of the broken trees, pierced by the thousand voices the names of God, each misplaced syllable another life which in those ears, and in those spent and silent fields took on the shape of being, the blue ferocity of a jay, and spoke for her the life that she had lost.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 20:12:00 +0000
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