Lucy Alexander # 83 Starlight

My mother was made of starlight

distant like music in a dream

straining I hung on her hem

with other things she collected

a brother, a fish from paisley

certain notes from Bach, some alone

some in tandem falling rain-like

the striking chords, piles of them:

We clung and she walked with certain grace

her mood liminal pressed rhythm

her voice the cadence of distance

her hair shone, even when we were young.

Speed is her vehicle of choice

political gestures broad, because when you

come from somewhere beyond the moon

tiny human mites are tragic

or worse, demand your milk

and feast on your decay so many of them

yearning and yearning she felt it in her skin.

When you are made of starlight,

certain things can never be

the press of body to body comfort

or small kisses tainted with crumbs

there whe was, above all that

the light years of her ribs

and the spectre of her arms

so filmy soft and luminescent

that she was barely there

crying ‘Adgietto’, and leaving us behind.