If an infant could speak, he would no doubt pronounce the act of sucking at his mother’s breast by far the most important in his life. — Sigmund Freud
The night my mother died, I forgave her,
Unimpeded, as much as I was able,
For withholding the breast and running away
To Mexico after I was born, the sour milk
Unanalyzable, indigestible in mystery of her flesh.
Dreaming at the very edge of sleep, I moved toward her,
Broke through the yoke of infant self and cast off,
Into unknown, uncharted waters, breathing
For the first time without her taking breath as well,
Watching her phoenix build its nest, then fly away again
Over the clouds, over Acapulco, over the boundaries of
Primal waters, sucking away in some green bed of paradise.
I blessed her for the inattention, the negligence,
Waiting to be held, loved, seen or heard.
On that last moonlit night before she left,
Her faded life awakened for its final flight,
Leaving me an orphan, abandoned yet again.
I forgave her, refused to keep expecting more,
Left behind the empty grave she had created,
More than half a century in the making.
Once having lived, a noble tyrant in her time….
Now she resides within my mind
Struggling in the dark, whirling in the years,
Never to fully emerge again… my heart wishing to
Part the fog of death and bless her hungry spirit:
Depart in peace; go find your place in arms of God.
Sitting under the shade of new trees I have planted,
I walk at last out from my dim youth, face caressed
By winds demanding nothing in return, white clouds
Pour refreshing rain and tears,
Give birth again to new Earth,
Find a place within the Milky Way to be alive.