You watched her pass, the woman you
were with while you learned Poetry.
Black hair—she smiled with such grey eyes—
you watched her pass without goodbyes,
and these hills blind me, golden; fierce
with bristling grass, smoking in the sun:
a cloud kicked up, an offering
to sanctify our suffering.
She lay down for a minute
to allow that one to come. Only
think, while holding him, a child
once held in warmth and now, exiled:
blue eyes, all. And hair like lightning.
That’s us, our full cheeks swelling,
full eyes dripping with questions still,
bellies and hearts and arms to fill.
That’s us. Black hair—she smiled with such
grey eyes. You watched her pass without
heart-ill goodbyes, at least in words.
And summer passed, and autumn turned
to place her in the pines, in heaps
of needles, sharp with what you felt
but did not say. We found her there:
ponderosas, pitch-dark like her hair.
We sang you out one icy night,
with half-shy notes of grief you would
have quickly silenced. We stood there
by your bed and sang the trio, though
you were joking when you asked; how
truly black she was beside you—
Tongue lolling, and that spooky eye
watching even as we said goodbye.
___________________________________________________________________
Sarah Dunster is wife to one, mother to seven, and an author of fiction and poetry. Her
poems have appeared on the online LDS poetry blog Wilderness Interface Zone as well as in
Victorian Violet Press, Segullah Magazine, Dialogue: Journal of Mormon Thought, Psaltery
& Lyre and Sunstone Magazine. She has published two novels with Cedar Fort under their
Bonneville Books imprint: the award winning historical fiction novel Lightning Tree, and Mile
21, which is a contemporary fiction/romance novel. When she is not writing Sarah can often
be found cleaning, cooking vegetarian or international meals, holding small people in her lap,
driving kids to soccer and piano lessons, singing in local musical productions with her family
or taking long walks after dark, especially in thunderstorms.
Wilderness Interface Zone 
“… We stood there / by your bed and sang the trio, though / you were joking when you asked…” My mom keeps asking me to sing at her funeral and I keep telling her I can’t. Such a light-hearted request while she’s still alive, but I know exactly what it will be like. This poem makes me uneasy for the future.
LikeLike
Fantastic poem. Wow, I love it…
LikeLike
Merrijane,
My Grandfather had a story he loved to tell about each one of his grandchildren, where we said or did something funny, particularly if it was at his expense. My sister Caitlin’s went like this:
We (me, my sister Carolee, and Caitlin, who was five years old, and was lying across my grandmother’s lap in the front seat of the truck) were singing Amazing Grace together. When we finished, grandpa said, “I want you girls to sing that at my funeral.” And Caitlin pipes up, “Grandpa, who says we’re going to be at your funeral?”
He found that very funny.
LikeLike
Karen, I am glad you like it.
LikeLike
You are a wonderful poet! Loved this one. I also love the photo of you. 🙂
LikeLike
thank you, Sharon. 🙂
LikeLike