MOTHER COMES.

A woman has a visited fom her dead mother.

Mother comes, although
Reta’s mother died
Some years ago, she

Sits there now in an
Old armchair with a
Phantom cigarette

Aglow and steely
Stare she had, still there,
But icier, more

Cold. Death has not yet
Undone or spoilt her
In any way, she

Still has that stern stance,
That cross-looking gaze
As in former days,

The turn of head, the
Way she holds between
Lips the cigarette,

So alive, although
Dead. Reta wonders
What her mother wants,

Why the visit? She
Has done as was asked
In her mother’s will:

A requiem mass,
Few guests, cremation
And a Spartan plague

Where her ashes lay,
With red roses, not
White or yellow or

Pink or any kind
That smell or stink (her
Mother’s words not hers).

Mother finally
Smiles through ghostly smoke,
Her eyes dark blue, now

Brighten, take on a
Softer hue, and tells
In her high class French,

Not words of wisdom
Or memory, but
Some filthy joke and

Laughs loudly and fades
And disappears from
View, leaving just the

Echo of her words
To take flight in the
Air like ghostly birds.