My mother, slender like the bird cherry tree.
Burdened by me, she ripens misfortune.
Wide bowls awash with pine woods flowers. Yellow
shutters half shut:
She waits for the holy day.

I arrive at the Elevation, when all the roads
are empty, when the organ is muted.
At night, piercing August stars fall thick into my cradle
and my mother begins to cry bitterly.
For the first time.
Because I split off, like a chunk of cliff, and will roll
down. Without her.

And truly:
She can’t hold onto my hands.
Autumn orchards burn with red flashes. Wild drakes
fly south. Their wings glitter brass.
That’s when I say goodbye.
The path presses close in the rushes. Sedges sharpened
like knives.
Toothless tree hollows gape and all my joints tremble.
But I don’t turn back.

Note: The Elevation is the priest’s raising of the consecrated
host and chalice at a Catholic Mass.