All This Time Her Bones

All This Time Her Bones

February 16, 2021 1 Comment

 

The Waking is proud to nominate "All This Time Her Bones" for Sundress Publications' Best of the Net 2021 anthology.

 

Have you come to the part of your life in which you contemplate your mother’s bones? Have you thought about her blood, about the fine material wrapped around her precious nerves, the delicate routes of communication down her spine, down her sturdy legs? Have you reached the place in your life in which you feel the pain in your mother’s feet? Do the pinpricks in her toes which she hardly minds at all keep you up at night? What is this place, this unexpected mile marker, the unwelcome occasion when I begin to study my mother’s movements, begin to watch for signs of slowing, startling shutters, or symptoms of hyphenated conditions, begin looking back at our shared youth, begin looking forward dimly. I remember everything. I am the repository of her youth. All this time her bones, and blood, and nerves have been mattering to me in the way the ground matters, is matter, matters so much that it disappears until I notice first signs of erosion, until I notice newly uneven crags, paths that trail off, tremors, first signs of cracks and all of a sudden the ground is showing up, snagging my attention and I am looking down at it in a new way. I am wondering how many more of my footfalls it will catch, how much longer it will hold me.



Sara Triana is a Texas writer of poetry and picture books. She lives an unschooling life with her partner, Mitch, and their three daughters outside of Houston in a small house surrounded by oaks and pines. Her poems have also appeared in Beatific MagazineWORDPEACE, and Gold Wake Live. She is the author of two children’s books, Love Love Bakery and Every Day is Making Day, and a poetry chapbook, Poppy Seeds. Find Sara’s projects at saratrianamitchell.com.

 

Photo by Tim Swinehart on Unsplash



1 Response

M. Ann Reed
M. Ann Reed

February 23, 2021

Spot-on relationship between birth-mother and mother nature who, as Theodore Roethke claims in his poem, “The Waking,” has something else to do with us.

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