She is thoroughly wet
through & through
as if a someone
(I don’t know who)
had upended
a bucket of water
over her.
The rain holds
a conversation with itself.
“Where’s your
new coat? ”
we incredulously ask her
as she continues
to drip
at us.
The rain is laughing
at something it has told itself.
“A poor woman
hadn’t one...”
“...so I gave her
mine.”
She explains
as to a child.
We her children
stare at her
Hair plastered
to her skull
A large drip
at the end of her nose..
My mother
could be kind
in an almost
Biblical New Testament way
as if she were Jesus Christ
before he had gotten himself crucified
and was alive and well
and living in her.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jesus-christ-is-alive-and-well-in-memory-of-my-mother-ita/
