Elegy: To My Mother

I will not soil my hands
with death--
though it come to me ragged--
not royal and threatening.
I will drape
my mother's clothing over me first,
cover my face
and hide.

I will not let the reaper sow
at random.
I will stand firm,
hold ground in the face of chill.
No hood will tempt me
or charm me.
I am immune to black.

I will not kiss the cross of suffering
bend and weep
at rotting flowers.
I will not see yellow flesh
and turn away.
I am abandoned,
but my heart is warm.
I will carry home
and mother with me.