Adrienne Lewis

Perfect Sorrow

2007-02-06T12:55:00.000-08:00

Above the bed (a vase of purple freesia along a tall headboard)
the Mother of God perched, to the right her Son
pierced through hands and feet. I was in love.

My inventory of suffering (innocence then rape)
was yours. An amber light poured between us.
I knew you were a Saint then.

My sober dreams (why do you continue to seek him?)
built an empty tomb. Down on my knees
something fluttered inside. We created our own Word.

Your voice distanced (whispers, not a trumpet anymore)
trying to remember what you believed. Settling
for the consolation of wings: I am still listening.

Redemption (the blood, our bodies freely given):
You and I at the garden's edge
with an apple in our hands. I'm kissing it now.

Dream of My Mother No. 3

2007-02-06T12:45:00.000-08:00

Imagine the ocean dwindling
into a fractured pool,
poured into a vase with Black-Eyed Susans.

This is how cremation works.

I am not supposed to know
the thanatology of morticians,
their indelible whisperings
behind closed doors.

I had memorized the edges of her

crisp against sheets; flesh
breathing in purls, amnesic
light shambling through windows.

Fresh-cut flowers witnessed
the last rites. My sister and I said
we wouldn't argue, but her hands watered

the hairy stems, dug into the succulent mud
of our mother's body, sacrificed
sleep. A thing not forgotten:

I should have been there.

Now closing my eyes
spills the dark center of our mother
into those yellow rays.

She swirls like a murky tongue,
the muffled trill of a lyre,
as if she might sing my name, scold me.

My hands sift through silt
spangled with bone.
shades of it surprised me. Each time
I expect grey or white,

but something intensely blue
flows through my fingers.

www.andydylew.com

2007-02-06T12:36:00.000-08:00

I just don't come here enough. How rotten of me. I've committed treason and switched to MySpace, where my son and all his friends send me numerous pleas to pick them up, drop them off, and laud me with "You're so cool." Oh yes, my ways are dark and mysterious, but I'm not the girl from the U2 song anymore.

2005-11-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

Andy Lewis