Texts arrive and so do viral posts of the world on fire,
but I sit alone, trying to recall, the last words
my mother spoke to me before all this happened.
I listened to her speak, I’m sure, but did I hear
her? The message I was supposed to share with others
got lost somehow among the chatter, all the words
of friends telling me news of their day: what happened
at dinner last night or some song I had to hear
to believe. Well, now, I can’t focus on dances of others
while I scratch my head in thought. Let the fires
come. This is the world in which shit happens.
People lean in, ear to ground, teacup to wall to hear
without hearing. They peer into the lives of others
to understand their own loneliness. A fire
blazes, lives playing out on nitrate film, no words
just silent burning; there’s nothing beyond to hear.
The smoke comes from within, or from some other,
my mother, who spent years praying through my fiery
path to adulthood. What can I say? There’s no words
to explain my ignorance in my youth; happening
just was. What was it she said before Alzheimer’s othered
her into silence? I don’t recognize what that fire
behind her eyes tries to recall now, but I know the words
fill behind her tongue. So much stayed in play, happenings
and goings on, there in her voice. I can still faintly hear
her past the texts and viral posts of the world on fire
around me. My mother warned me this would happened.
This, her message, I was supposed to share with others.
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