for mothers
Mothers are beginnings,
certain as life is movement,
that first felt spin
in the pit of the pelvis
more directed than bowel gas,
a twist with purpose to it;
an introduction more real than EPT,
sore breasts, or missed periods.
We have no experience
with letting go, besides the small
letting goes of birth and school and college and marriage,
not that final one, my mother
tracing my sister’s stone face
with fingertips and kisses,
saying I don’t want to leave her alone
that last night before her funeral.
She would have followed her
into the dirt, ready to do it
since part of her was already buried.
No mother should do this, another mother said,
sponging warm water across cooling skin,
kissing eyelids that won’t open again,
his cold, small lips under hers already hardening.
This was her goodbye, not the ritual
with prayers and family.
We should all wash what’s dead,
clear away the dust we are made out of
from what’s left of who we love;
a shroud the last swaddling gift
from loved hands that always held
before matter meets dirt
or becomes ash in its unmaking.
There are no words for this. Never say
your child is in a better place now
to a mother. She won’t believe it;
because the better place, the safe place
was always the beginning, under her heart.
Susan Daniels Poetry 
Oh, Susan …
Thanks, Polly. I had to write this. If you click on the link (“mothers” in the dedication), you’ll know why I had to.
Susan … there are no words …
I know, she broke my heart into a million pieces with that.
Oh I am crying.
Honey, I was too when I wrote this. You need to check out that link at the top to see why I needed to write this. (((Julie)))
Susan, this act you have described of the mother washing the dead child is transcendental across faiths. A wonderful poem.
Bart, thank you. I think an act like this speaks to a core of truth in each of us, close to where faith springs from. Thanks so much for commenting. Means a lot that this spoke to you.
it is a testimony to the work you’ve so obviously invested in your craft that this communicates so powerfully – utterly uncompromised by any sentimentality – and even as I write these seemingly cold words of analysis my heart is broken!
Oh, thank you. I might have avoided sentimentality, but, my God, man, I was crying my eyes out while I wrote it.
I believe it! Thank you!
We lost my sister when she was forty-two and I was twenty four. I felt this piece vividly Susan. Not like Ronan’s story, but as a glimpse of my own and my mother’s. Another story I have yet to tell.
Good poems speak in many voices. Thank you
Johnny, thank you. We have talked briefly before about our shared loss of sisters–I saw Ronan’s story through my mother’s eyes, losing my sister at 29. Loss is the same for all of us–loss of a child, my God, I can’t even think of it. Breaks my heart.
Ah yes, I thought this rang that kind of bell. That phrase about a mother never having to do this…it always seems to come up. And perhaps we should all have to wash the dead. At one time it was a given and I wonder what we have lost of our selves in this lack of connection to this aspect of life. Much to ponder so thank you again.
Good point. So much of what we were deeply and personally connected to is given up in our rituals now, as well as our lives. We don’t wash our dead. We don’t grow our food. We don’t birth our babies in the bed we sleep in. Damn, there’s another poem in this that I have no time to write today.
I finished a little ripple from this. I did not realize I was ready to pull it out of me yet, but there it is…not about my sister but mom…
Thank you–
…and my cinquains turned into a cinquain sonnet…
Saw those, they were amazing. Coming to check out your ripple.
Very moving.
Thanks, Georgia.
Beautifully power poem Susan.
Joseph, thanks. This was one I did not want to write, but had to.
Well, you did a wonderful job. The stanza with her kissing of his eyelids and the lips hardening was particularly stirring to me.
Thank you, Joseph. Me too–in the piece she wrote about that, and it struck me dumb and numb.
Susan, you distilled tears into balm with this powerful and brilliant piece.
Oh, David, thank you. Was a difficult piece to write.
Beautifully put, Susan, brilliant.
Thank you, Adriene.
Sus…your words have brought me to tears as they did for you when you wrote it.
Being a mother, the grief and pain would be too much for me to physically and mentally bare if I lost a child.
This –
not that final one, my mother
tracing my sister’s stone face
with fingertips and kisses,
saying I don’t want to leave her alone
that last night before her funeral.
OMG my entire being is shivering on the inside re-reading. In fact I cannot say anymore only that you are brilliant and this, though so gut wrenchingly painful, is, in my eyes your best work. xxx
Jen, thank you–you are so very sweet to say so… I think it hits we moms on a gut level.
Sad but beautiful poem, read the story beautiful tribute to a mother, she so right, and the way you ended this is perfect, a love of a mother is always there…in her heart. Thank you for this Susan
Doris, thank you so much.
Reblogged this on Ramblings From A Mum and commented:
Susan L Daniels. An amazing talented writer. If you haven’t seen her work please I ask that you do http://susandanielspoetry.com
This piece is gut wrenching, painful and I know those who may read it
will be effected. I had to share for her brilliance.
Heartbreakingly beautiful. I kneel at your feet in wonder at your words. Alice
Alice, wow, thank you. I see some technical things I want to change with this piece, but I am so glad it is working on the emotional level it needs to. Broke my heart to write this.
And mine to read it. It REALLY works on an emotional level.
Again, thanking you SO MUCH.
Susan — your words and emotion, wow. You really have a gift. I sincerely mean this.
Where is Ronan.. gasp. Heart-wrenching.
Audra, thank you so much. Have some technical issues to deal with but, I tried, I tried so hard to say something about this. Felt I had to. That post, my God, it wrong my heart out.
yes. How could it not?
No way in hell it couldn’t. Poor, poor mom.
Oh no! I’m really sorry. How beautiful and sad at the same time. I hug you…hugs Paula xx
Paula, thank you.
Beautiful poem, and yes, we are very disconnected in so many ways from what we are.
Lynette–thank you, and I agree.
Seems awkward to say it, but it is a beautiful poem.
Oh, thank you (know what you mean!)
Oh, it’s perfect. I don’t think I have more words…
Thank you. Thank you for leading me to that blog, that post, that pure grief, and for your words. There are no other words I have–it just about killed me to write this, but I had to. I think you know that, and why, from what her experience brought out of you.
Of course, I do. I am still reeling from it…I always will be. But perhaps that is best. These things should be felt. I admire her…her pain enables her to do great things. Mine paralyzes and ensnares me.
Oh, and, “she would have followed her into the dirt”
Just absolutely one thousand percent, yes.
First, about the pain–you will climb out of it and it will make you stronger, really. I did.That following her into the ground–she would have. I wanted to. I spent months after, walking the beach in Florida asking why her and not me.
Oh, darling. I do understand, though not in the exact same way. Most days I wish I could follow them all into the ground….
That is the highest tribute you can pay someone, to want to follow them. That is, if you are following and not leading. You are too precious to go there before you absolutely have to. Hang around.
The world is simply appalling. I think I am capable of ignoring it less than some, and I envy those who can.
As poets/artists, we are incapable of ignoring the world (it is forever under our skin), and we take life personally.
It is a blessing and a curse. I view it as a responsibility to see, say, and share–to whomever listens to my pathetic little voice. Keeps me sane.
Pathetic? I’d cross that out and write POWERFUL and underline it three times. A blessing and a curse. I think I get that. My blessing is that I can bleed it out in words, I guess.
It IS–imagine if you didn’t write.
I cannot. Honestly, I can imagine a lot of things, most things. But not that.
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Oh Susan. What can I say? Heartbreaking as only you know how to churn it. 🙂
Celestine, thank you. Sad, sad story inspired this–but it is a beautiful one too.