Lola Ridge

When Celia makes umbrella of her hand. Rain falls through big pink spokes of her fingers.

To my Mother)

Let me cradle myself back
Into the darkness
Of the half shapes…
Of the cauled beginnings…
Let me stir the attar of unused air,
Elusive… ironically fragrant
As a dead queen's kerchief…
Let me blow the dust from off you…
Resurrect your breath
Lying limp as a fan
In a dead queen's hand.

It is cool by the port hole.
The wet rags of the wind
flap in your face.