Michele Martell’s mother, Phyllis, was killed in a car accident when she was just 58 years and one month old, two days before Christmas 1997. Michele was 35 at the time with three young kids. This July, Michele turns 58, and has been thinking about what it means to outlive her mother’s ultimate age, to move past her in years spent on this Earth. This weekend, she took part in an Instagram live poetry workshop with Canadian poet Rupi Kaur, the author of two bestselling collections of poetry, in which Michele was prompted to consider different body parts while thinking of her mother.
***
Dear Mom,
I miss you. I am approaching
The portal you went thru
I’m approaching the place you
Didn’t get to
I’m approaching the unknown.
EYES
I gaze at our last image
Faces pressed, my cheek curved
Into the curve of your eyes
Together we look out thru
Shared eyes, separated by time
HAIR
You tried with my hair
Pin curls and ponytails
Peroxide blonde and perms
I love the photos of you
From the 70’s, high poof
And pony
HANDS
Always, the feel of your hands
Always with a double squeeze
A quick acknowledgment
A quick gathering up
SPINE
You gave me a spine
Built thru you, thru your seeing me
I don’t remember being made
To feel small by you
Always, you heard me and
Supported me
Built a safe place for me to be
Shy and fierce
Filled with emotion and overwhelmed
ELBOWS
Dance, arms high, in
Bells and embroidery and
Customs from other countries
You made it/you danced
You showed up as you
You made a flamenco dress
From polka dot curtains
For Maddie
You dancing is me dancing
LEGS
That could have danced longer
That could have climbed
That would have carried you
To me when I needed you.
***
Read More: “A Prolonged Spring Cleaning” and Other Poems for the Sequester Season
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