Out of focus, this stranger
my mother
sits shivering in full sun,
vibrates like dune grass
edge to wind.
I try to see, reclaim
what light has bruised into shadow:
moon lakes in the hollow cheeks,
sea caves, the scooped sockets of her eyes.
I am blinded by bone-light
ridging white through skin
that quivers with each breath,
every pore needed to sieve air.
She waits for me to recognise her
in negative, these last images
transparent
over the remembrance of her face.
Her lips are pulling drawstrings
around the words she shapes:
Be happy. Be glad for me.
My happiness is no longer in her power
but I hold on, her child again.
My hand in hers we unravel cords,
pull out entanglements.
We tie, untie,
neither one of us released.