I Write From My Mother’s Last Two Hours of Life
in my imagination. I slept as she cried
out in pain a year ago, but now I live in a place
where the sun has risen—in theory. We’ve had sun
all week but today is the first turn in the weather:
the first time even the sky believes that the air
has changed into something less generous.
out in pain a year ago, but now I live in a place
where the sun has risen—in theory. We’ve had sun
all week but today is the first turn in the weather:
the first time even the sky believes that the air
has changed into something less generous.
I write from my mother’s last moments too late.
There, I slept through the train screech every
ten minutes. Here, I wake to my neighbour
playing guitar. I’ve never heard him play
before. What makes it different for him?
What does he know about me? After all
those days of gorgeous sun, why does his
laundry sit on the line now? It’s going to rain.
About the Author
Abbie Langmead (she/they) is the neglected herb garden on your windowsill. First planted in Boston, Massachusetts, they’d try to set roots in Dublin, Ireland but there’s not enough light. Recent cuttings have been planted in Dyke Affair, FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Trace Fossil Review, and many others. She wants your leftover pasta water and for their leaves to be included in your future works.