I grasped Mom’s finger –
stared into her loving eyes –
my first breath of air.
As a child, always
held her hand to cross the street
and for bedtime prayer.
Sometimes as a teen
I would grasp her hand as we
walked on Naples’ beach.
Elderly, and soon
to pass, she gripped my hands as
though to save herself
as sensation of
falling overtook her, and
she needed grounding.
An honor to hold
dying hands of one who held
my hands in her womb.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Chapter 1. Rain.
The day I was born,
it rained hard on my sister …
submerging her soul.
Chapter 2. Wombs.
Her first pregnancy’s
uniqueness dimmed, when I found
myself pregnant, too.
Pregnant together
again. A son for me. A
tragic loss for her.
Simultaneous
third pregnancies perhaps seemed
a cruel joke, to her.
Chapter 3. Lost and Found.
In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a common heartache.
In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
shared grief is shared love.
In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a needed sister.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
He says hi there;
she says hello.
“Which floor?” he asks.
She doesn’t know.
His finger waits,
then starts to tap.
Her face turns red.
She thinks, “Oh crap.
Why can’t I think?
Just pick a floor!”
Her brain congeals.
He taps some more.
“Just. Pick. A. Floor.”
That thought now slips
from clotted brain
through tense, pursed lips.
With sideways glance
and impish smirk,
he presses 12.
(Joker? Or Jerk?)
Long, silent ride
can’t end too soon.
It seems to take
all afternoon.
She ruminates
entire ride,
should parting words
be kind? Or snide?
She isn’t sure
how this should end –
Just like my awkward
poem, my friend.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
My five-year-old eyes
watched a three year old salute
his daddy’s coffin.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Written in response to Walt Wojtanik’s “I remember …” prompt at Poetic Bloomings.
pictured words 