ESCAPE ARTIST

 

My mother missed her own funeral.

Why or how she did it is a mystery.
Or a fantasy. I barely remember.

The blow of absence that shut the priest's
Voice like a child's very first nightmare.

The lump of air in my throat I kneaded
Until it became smoke, became breath.

Language, nestled up against silence.

A lunatic sashaying past, grinning,
Doesn't anyone know where she is?

What can I say? We all missed it. And left.

Well, no wonder, someone muttered
On my way past the holy water,
She's a suicide, you know . . . and a whore.

Yes, I thought.
Not even God can create a net without holes.

Daniele Pantano    07.07.2009