of doom. To withdraw like a fly or amuse oneself
like a submarine in a fjord misnamed a canal.
To decide rain makes it worse,
but sun’s bad too, but both are good.
When the answer to the question
is die.
When the father asks when are ya gonna
tell the kids, when die, when die,
when die.
Seeing the word skull reminds me of winter
in Santa Fe, O’Keeffe’s obsession—
worn, bleached, jagged. Holy,
holey, and whole. Add: that it will never be
June in my spine. That the leaves
will return,
girls will converse, but the topaz truth went underground
with the scorpions my nephew knew where to find,
that I can’t pant or paint or prance away
the traverse toward being a transient mom.
The salt of it, so not a honeycomb
of revive.
Martha Silano passed away on May 5, 2025, from ALS.
Martha Silano (1961–2025) was the author of six collections of poetry, most recently Terminal Surreal (Acre), about her journey with ALS, and Last Train to Paradise: New and Selected Poems (Saturnalia). www.marthasilano.net.
Photo by Antonios Kirikos on Unsplash
