bob bradshaw

Visiting Mother's Grave

This is the first time I've been
to her grave. I have brought anemone flowers.

I remember my father's description
of her last hours, the bed bloodied,
the baseboards and lower walls red,

smeared with hand prints where she
had made her way on her knees
back to bed. Where was I?

Three thousand miles away, her
last memory of me that
of a son who didn't care enough

to be there.

My thoughts are interrupted
by a flurry of wind. Leaves, like animals fleeing from a fire
snag in the netting of my hair,
cling to my chest like birds
flying blindly into fences.

I brace against the afternoon storm,
the spray of rain flying in my face

as my mother lies under a layer of mud
and strewn flowers, my vase
knocked over as if by her

dismissive hand