Burial

After my mother passed away, freed from her suffering, the house

felt empty, and the sea, churning waves, glanced up to hill’s crest.

My brother tried to strangle me but a neighbour saw it happen.

He gave a warning about calling the police. I was able to enter

with a wreath of lilies and roses freshly arranged. In the scuffle

three of the lilies had been torn from their stems. They lay strewn

on the lawn like annotations where my brother had thrown me.

The dark pollen swimming in skirts, cold and stunning was pristine

as the stopped flux of her jugular vein. I cleaned the spittle

bubbling from the side of her mouth, I cleaned her nostrils, pressed

shut her eyes, clipped her nails. We washed her body, turned

from side to side. By now plasma and gravity had left a horizontal stain

on her recumbent spine and her feet. My throat is sore and my wrist

where my brother grabbed me; my upper arm burns from his grasp.

In my brother’s delusion, I was the one who killed my mother.

I drove out to the cemetery

overlooking the sea where she would be laid to rest. It felt tranquil,

circled by eucalypt trees. I felt the gravel turn under the tyres of my car.

A light breeze fingered onshore across the valley, briny and fragrant.

In this world we are gardeners, preserving the garlands. I wanted to cry

but could not. Even to this day I am choking, and I have not wept.