Covid
by: Billy Collins
Another long day
at home.
I set my phone
on Airplane Mode.
I know this is a strange poem to include in a Mother's Day post. (For my international disciples, the United States sets aside the second Sunday of May as a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood.) Yet, there's something in this poem that makes me think of my mom.
Even before the pandemic forced us all into isolation, my mother wasn't doing well. If memory serves, she fell at home some months into COVID and ended up in the hospital. From there, she was transferred to a long-term care facility. So, I didn't see much of her near the end of her life.
It's hard for me to believe that she's been gone for almost three years. In temperament and personality, I think I take after my mother more than my father. She was open-minded and loving. I rarely saw her get angry. And she was quick to spot the ridiculous in life. I once read her an Anne Sexton poem when I was an undergraduate, and she laughed her ass off. (My mom was the first person who taught me that poetry can be funny.)
Every Mother's Day, I share a poem I wrote many years ago for my mom. It ended up being the poem I read at her funeral:
Heart to Heart
Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.
I know most kids say this, but my mom was a hero, raising nine kids, helping my dad run his plumbing business, volunteering at church, advocating for parents with special needs children. She did it all with grace and compassion.
Saint Marty wishes all the hero mothers reading this post a Happy Mother's Day.
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Mother's Day Shopping
by: Martin Achatz
I stand in front
of the Mother's Day cards
the day before, feeling
like a hyena sniffing
a zebra carcass, knowing
all the good parts have
already been scavenged
by vulture sons for their moms.
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