Branches
She laid there.
Silent.
In a full size mattress
wrapped in white sheets.
Arms laid flat by her side.
Forearms and palms opened wide,
fingers spread,
waiting for a hug from
her father both in heaven.
Her breath comes in soft quartets,
beating in a rhythm of peace.
Her face is cherry oakwood.
The dips in her eyes are carved with
dark markings and claws of ravens.
Her pupils are painted in season of fall,
brown with oh so little light in her eyes.
Her nose, round and curved like a leaf
yet the oxygen she breathes through
the stomata of her nostrils
flows through a tank.
Her lips,
shaped in the form of a heart,
so everything she kisses
is left with pieces of it.
The room is filled with tears.
Her loved ones,
surrounding her,
holding on to her body until
it is the only thing left of her.
Their hearts ache with sorrow and relief,
confused whether to feel solace or pain.
She is calm, smile on her face.
Her lips form porcelain fossils
in the shape of a fence.
Guarding her sullen voice from the tubes
they’ve tried to shove down her throat.
Holding hands with the last of her strength.
She opens the gates.
“Live.”
Rivers flowing down the beds
of their earth-toned faces.
The impact of her words crashing
against the shore of memories shared.
She prayed for peace.
Her last words in the same breath,
“Is daddy home?”
Eyes flickering.
Her children respond,
“Yes, he is.”
“Go on home to ‘em.
“We’ll be here.”
Her breath decrescendos.
The music of her forest becomes still and silent.
Her leaves no longer rustled.
Her branches no longer hung strong.
Like a tree,
the only thing she leaves are her roots.
