~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Cora Clark

Empty Heaven 

It was easier when my mother moved

from pile to pile of ash

in her canvas coat,

stooping to spread the ice black.

Now, when she lights up to laugh

though no one has told a joke,

I see a place

I can’t meet her in,

a song she hums over the dishes

rising through the hardwood

into the old blue room.

But I’m reminded

of falling in love,

the trees brandishing their brilliant stars

under a clear sky. Didn’t I start

this dance? I can see her now

standing there as I walk from her

and she can’t follow.

There’s little light left,

she twirls in a grasp

(whose it doesn’t make a difference)

until it drops her down in this empty heaven

that mirrors mine. And I hadn’t thought

she was watching.

Cora Clark is currently Junior Lecturer of fiction and poetry at Johns Hopkins University. Her work has appeared in grain and Blackbird.