The Day Before You Died In Amsterdam by Alina Stefanescu
for the poet's mother
We did not address the invisible embolus. We did
not imagine things we couldn't see.
Instead, you told me of downpours and
impossibly red flowerbeds.
You spoke of concrete things like
how much you missed us.
I was glad you'd be home soon.
The words sounded like a comfy wooden bench
near a tree where we would talk.
The concrete continued
until the kids lost a ball in the pool.
A knee needed kissing.
I said I love you.
And then you laughed.
Four words, solid bricks, you
built to last: I love you more.
Four words so dense I can no longer
see past them. Your words now a wall
I bang my head against.
How much more, mama?
And how many mores
you left. Art by Wilma Enström
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