After Mama's Funeral

After Mama's Funeral

Walking through
falling snow and falling petals,
the dead bird floats down
like a feather
landing at your feet.
You pick it up and say,
“This is just what she said would happen.”

But I continue to walk toward
Mama’s closet. The doors open,
her clothes dance into new shapes
for us. Our faces and hands turn
frostbitten.

Disappearing between silk and cotton,
squeezing through the membrane,
we emerge in a bedroom
years from here
and Mama,
standing in the corner
with her back to us, whispers,
“Don’t be scared.”
“Mama, are we dreaming?” we ask.
She says,
“Yes
and
No.”

©JEF 1989