Lucy Alexander #86 Monument

My mother grew close to the ground

stirrups chained in long runners

one segment after the other

roots shallow, so if ever you wanted to find her

(queen of the ants, friend to all the small things)

you followed her white shoots back to the source

centred there, where the loam was rich

and everything that fell – stars and wasps

even raindrops or leaves

broke its back on impact and gave itself over

to her very quiet determination

spindling out her pale stalks and remaining

still as a monument, slow as a fungus.

She specialized in changes, but hated them all

as a rule, making tiny adjustments to her

nets and spangles while she counted the

ways her arms could move underground,

around the corner, into your dreams.

Her hair was as light as cumulonimbus

raking the soil and insisting on growth

even when she took the shears

and cut off all the spirals, her own and mine

she cried in the night over the difference she made

but by morning the moon had done her work

the lake of tears was dried and gone

and we smoothed the soil over

the subtler scars.