Her body prepares for the smaller space
of a grave - She changes the house each week.
I see her between the nightstand and the last
place she pushed the couch, notice she doesn't tower
Mama wants her coffin to be the pine box
grandpa wanted - not the white trimmed in gold
chariot granny bought planning to join him - only
the whole family, the minister and the escort
police kept her from falling with the dirt.
When I think pine I see one woman's head
bowed in the forest. Some days it's mama stretching
herself on a limb.
Like most daughters I'm most scared by how much I
my mother's mirror - by how much her grave will be the hole
Bio: Mary E. Weems, Ph.D., is also a playwright, performer,
and urban education reform scholar. Her new book which includes original
theory, poetry, and two plays is titled "Public Education and the
Imagination Intellect: I Speak from the Wound in my Mouth."
Contact Mary Weems at email@example.com