My mother is alive again
in my dreams.
And so is my father,
though they rarely appear together.
In one variation
my mother returns to visit,
her cancer healed.
We talk for a bit & she whispers
Don’t tell your father I was here.
I ask her why she doesn’t stay,
I thought you were dead.
No, there’s no such thing & laughs lightly
though she can’t explain why her visits
are so infrequent.
Immortality makes sense at night.
My father’s heart seems strong again
as he rushes around with purpose.
Sometimes he tells me not to worry.
It will be all right.
My mother though is still frail,
and we hold each other, rocking.
In the morning I’m startled that
I remember her touch—
the exact pressure of her hand on mine.
Copyright © Myna Wallin. Originally published in A Thousand Profane Pieces (Tightrope Books, 2006).
Myna Wallin is a Toronto poet and prose writer. She received her MA in English from University of Toronto. She has published two collections of poetry, A Thousand Profane Pieces (Tightrope Books, 2006) and Anatomy of An Injury (Inanna Publications, 2018). Her second book, the novel Confessions of a Reluctant Cougar, was also published by Tightrope Books in 2010.