Late Song

for my mother

She’s breaking my heart
after years of glazing and firing.
“My pretty one. You’re my pretty one.”
Old lady of trembly lips and thin hair–
“My baby. You’re my baby.”
Her stubbly chin rubs mine.
We kiss goodbye.
“How far away? How far?”
She points to the wheeling birds.
“I tell the birdies you’ll come back.”
In these last days, there is
no real life apart.
The broken
heart knows
its spill
of joy.