A Prayer for Mama Who Said Watching Me Transition Would Be the Same as Burying Me

ronan blackwell

& God bless her hands, the palmful of blood blisters she splits open with every new hour of digging,

knuckles knotted stiff and swollen & the heartline caked in earth & God help the starved hunch of her

spine, whole body curled towards this dredged ground like an infant homesick for the womb & God bless

the coffee I sip as I watch her through the kitchen window & the bitter burn in my throat & all this work

just to mourn the living & Mama you don’t need to do the heavy lifting—I can tell you, hand to God, all

the ways a name can become a grave & Mama I’ll wear it anyway if it means you’ll come inside again &

we can eat breakfast elbow to elbow & yes the eggs will be seasoned with soil & I will never be your son

& yes I’ll swallow anyway, the spilled yolk & the grit of earth & your ruined hands & amen, I’ll say,

amen. 

Ronan Blackwell goes to School of the Arts in Charleston, South Carolina. When they aren't writing, they can be found making playlists for hyper-specific emotions and scenarios and trying to find space in their room for more plants.