Memoir - Honor Moore - Bog

At the funeral / the priest said, our sister enters the gates of paradise / in a company of angels. Mom, were you waiting? / I have no mother, your mothers gone, and / the you that lives on, me, I must learn she is / enough. From this room I see snow. Snow. Tomorrow is your / birthday. This is for you. The snow is melting. Ive built / a fire. Mom, the fingers of the dead / woman play as if in some paradise, paradise, and / your mouth pinkens to breathing red and smiles. I am here, / your daug