Today's poem is by Dan Albergotti

What Took to the Air
       

When my mother died, the purple martins
that stepped out of her chest pulled themselves up
into flight, gliding low over the grass

of the campus lawn, foraging the air
for mosquitoes. They waved their dark, arched wings
at me as they passed. And this is the truth.

When dew evaporated from her grave,
it gathered in the clouds, then fell back down
to soak shallow roots that fed the xylem

of the gardenias she loved. That's truth too.
I was there, where flight and a light drizzle
were twin ghosts of the fresh and godless air.

Copyright © 2024 Dan Albergotti All rights reserved
from Candy
LSU Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission