Mother’s Day
Sonnenizio on a Line from Sybil Kollar’s “Late Arrivals”
Theresa Edwards

At forty-six I am still the baby of the family.
Still, I wish I could hear my mother say those words,
“You’re still my baby.” Mausoleums don’t have earphones
to hear the stillness that shines on the slabs, the marble walls.
Still, I wish there was some way to know how lovely
and still she lies behind her vertical grave. To ask her,
“Do you still see your features and traits in me?”
I look like her. Still fold the towels in threes—like she did.
But I still don’t like to visit her tomb. I’m sure her soul
stands still every Mother’s Day when her baby doesn’t visit.
As I age, distill like Creme de Minthe left open in a stifling attic,
I can’t bring myself to like that ornate stillhouse—its thick air takes my tears.

I never thought I’d want the comfort of a still gravestone embedded in the earth.
I don’t. I’d find solace in the sun, the snow’s stillicide, my mother’s rebirth.


After reading Kim Addonizio’s “Sonnenizio on a Line from Drayton.”

Please see other work in this issue by author.