The Wing of Motherhood

I remembered you as a balm that heals my wounds,
as soft feathers clothing my wing,

and in memory I came back to you a newborn,
as though no eraser had wiped out the book of yesterday.

I look out from the crib upon a bliss
of dewy shade, decked out in daisies,

and I rise up singing whenever a phantom
of your face appears, at morning and at evening,

like a fledgling bird that cries out whenever a wing
comes into view, or wakes to birdsong.

I remembered you when I woke upon a mirage —
before I lost you I had never been awake.

Your tenderness — how, O mother, can one hope for it,
a meeting of those forced into exile?

In what horizon, I wonder, do you stand from me,
on what shore my winds can never reach?

I see you in dreams at times, and then I wake
to a hope my morning scatters;

so I weep for you, and feel some spirit
consoling me and mocking my lament.

And whenever I complain of an aching head, I all but
feel your two palms feeling my palm,

and your lips drawing near my brow,
that in them I might reach my ease.

Today I see you in my eyes a phantom
fluttering, as yesterday, a world of grace.

God keep you — what a tender mother,
who poured light into my soul and my wine!

But for you I would never have uttered a letter,
nor won any portion of success;

and but for your dear phantom, the world,
for all the breadth of its plains, would have closed in on me.