FLYING, STARTLED

Two poems: A revised poem, first published in my book, The Edges, and a new poem; both for the anniversary of my mother’s death.

MOTE

This morning
     The sun
            Streamed, poured

In through
      My window
            Almost like

Something alive
      And liquid
            And golden

With motes
      Of dust
            Flying, startled

Swimming on
      The beams
            Going nowhere

My eyes
      Suddenly watering
            An eyelash

I thought
      But no
            Eyelashes were 

Lost amongst
      The tears
            Making tracks

My cheeks
      Wet, remembering 
            Her voice

Explaining words
      Like mote
            “Small particles

Of dust,”
      She said
            As my

Small hands
      Tried capturing
            The fairies

That danced
      And shimmered
            When I reached

My mother taught me words the way some people hand you something fragile—carefully, watching your face. I was small when she explained what a mote was, and I immediately forgot the definition and remembered the fairies. Years after she died, morning light came through a window and I stood there longer than I meant to. The poem wrote itself out of that standing still.

MID-SENTENCE

She laughed mid-story, every time,
just before the moral came.

Animals knew things. People stumbled.
The pig outsmarted the neighbor.
The dog had opinions.

She delivered the ending straight-faced
and we were useless.

She believed she was going somewhere
and she went without argument,
the way she told a story,
building toward what she already knew.

Her ashes found the sea.
Some of her is Cayman water now,
some is weather,
some is something
I breathe in
when I tell the same story
and hear her voice
finishing the sentence.

My mother died on June 11, and every year the date finds me. She was a storyteller in the oral tradition: animals with opinions, neighbors who stumbled, punchlines she delivered straight-faced while we fell apart.

She believed she was going somewhere and she went without argument, the way she did most things. Her ashes are in the sea off the Cayman Islands, where she was raised and where she always called home.

I didn’t expect to keep hearing her. But I’ll be telling a story and her voice comes in at the end, finishing it.

I’ve stopped being surprised.

Love and miss you, Mommy!

Upcoming…

• June’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 17 June 2026

  This year, every prompt will come directly from movie titles.

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt is: MISERY. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 17th!

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