Our Mother Is Dying

Today I am grateful
for the ways that I am broken.
Cracked open,
with rough edges
that soften to the world, inviting
through voluptuous sensitivity
this upwelling of celebration
that is grief
as the pain of our being sings through me,
and I know that I belong.
That I can be longing,
a cry in this dark
that draws us to ourselves, cohering,
clotting, clothing ourselves
in love and loss and the effluvia of this life
that is what seeds us
with the questions we must live,
of what we may become, a story
born of devastation’s teaching,
this fervent-voiced vision
that is honey on my tongue.