Bill Brown
Mounding Potatoes
The phone call at 2 a.m.
was my sister saying
that you had died in
the emergency room
but had been shocked
to life so that your pulse
stabilized and you told
the doctor you remembered
the whole event, heart stopping
and the sharp electric trip back.
He said that such a memory wasn't likely.
But you stuck to your story
even during the ambulance ride
to the medical center where
magical balloons sailed
their timely voyage through your blood
to stretch the vessels
which clogged your heart.
Mother, today you smile at my concern,
knowing what death is like.
At eighty-two, you heard
no voices from beyond,
no angelic music fluttering
a heavenly welcome.
Your faith was stuck
in the strength of this world
as the frantic voiced commands
and the laying on of fire
kept you in life's routine.
Two weeks later, I marvel to watch
your strong hands mound
young plants in my garden,
dreaming the while
of new potatoes with parsley,
resurrected
from this simple ground.
The Art of Dying, The Sow’s Ear Press.