Alida Woods
My Mother Declines Death
When her husband died,
he met her at the mouth
of the river–cordgrass
anchored in pluff mud. Her feet
held fast to the bank.
His pull dissipated
into the updraft
of an osprey’s wing.
After her son died,
he found her crouched
at the foot of the elm
where her children caught
fireflies and smelled of summer.
He urged. She declined,
holding fast to
feathered branches.
And when her daughter died,
he lured her into the crow-filled woods,
surrounded her in darkness
and the indifference of the wind.
His case for leaving was as solid
as the rock slid over the grave.
She pulled back even as he held her
in the dark humming night.
When breath returned
she felt the fire,
burning like compost, her own
aerobic energy amassing
in her heart.
She turned and with her
broken body rose.