mother, wind, other

after rinsing
off this sea-
scape aquarelle
into my mouth,
watch me
say, mother,
& mean, wind.
to tell you,
like grandma,
her daughter,
has grown
thin enough
to pass
between
the strings
of an aeolian
harp on a cliff.
or to say
something
about feeling
mother leave
father through
his nostrils.
to tell you,
mother, after
passing, is dancing,
in her garnet
gown on the clothes-
line, the dance
of that polythene
bag we saw
between
a tattoo artist’s
shop, and a cancer
center. to tell you,
how much
of a great idea
it was to
follow you to
that nursing home,
and now, the wind
is no one
but a mother
drawing waves
like fresh sheets
over her child
she keeps
forgetting
is dead.