My mother on her hospice bed sees them,
But we don’t: the three priestesses
Swathed in white like African women
With faces etched deep by the sun.
They are obeying some summons
And beckon to my mother.
They will guide her to a destination
Quite unlike the Heaven of the catechism:
No Beatific Vision, but something
Equally ineffable.
Summonses just happen,
The way rain happens, or
The way the Sun blesses comets
With their fiery tails.
Many are never summoned,
Just anaesthetized.
But my mother sees the priestesses
And they smile, the eldest coaxing
My mother’s body to sit up,
So she may clasp the waiting hand.
August 27th, 2010
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