Her Porcelain Skin

Published in The Long Arc of Grief (Finishing Line Press 2019)

I had forgotten her dreaming face,
her joyful and expectant face,
her peaceful face.

In her studio,
rolling porcelain petals,
joining them with a lick of her tongue,
building them into shapes so thin,
sunlight would wake them.

Her face before worry,
before anger at her own body,
before her long and ungentle going.

I had forgotten
until that first moment
after her last breath.

I thought I had prepared myself—
braced for the horror of her corpse.
But I did not know death would sweep away
the furrows and creases
that had become my mother’s face.
I was not prepared for the beauty of that moment.
Her lips just parted.
Her skin smooth and translucent,
like porcelain catching sunlight.