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by Donald Standeford  
3/08/2013 / Poetry

She could've been
One of many Different beings;
A guardian angel
Appearing at illnesses
Or accidents
To provide a young boy
With relief,

She could've been a
Barrel chested pastor
Smashing his mountain fist
On podiums, thundering
From thick Old
Testament Lips. Her hair
Could've been

For me to climb out on

Or her voice muted,
And I forced to read her
Every movement
As she peeled potatoes,
Pleasant In her silence
At dining table, or
As she walked
From room to room
Pushing the Hoover

Vacuum. Or As she carefully
Placed ten dollars
In my hand,
To spend at Ray's Market
On popcorn and Hershey's
(Her favorite treat for movie watching),

She could've been a prophet
From some ancient time,
Sent 2,000 Years into the future,
Cross the globe,
An evangelist who'd seen Christ
Raised up on a cross,
Who had shed tears
Upon the lovely
Body, wiped the lovely blood
Off His own hands,
And whose words came

From the mouth of God.
I thank God, she was,
And that she was my mom.

We shared life lovely,
And life hard, our hands
Intertwined, our hearts
Entwined, Praying
At the dining room table.
I thought I knew her,
Didn't Until Wind lifted her
Into full glory
Her fingers encir-
cled round mine,

We knelt, prayed, prophesied,
Hands of the shepherdess,
Hands in prayer,
Hands Anointed, Hands lifted
To a higher time; my voice,
When I had no articulation; my conscience;
I had no need to be reminded, I thought;
Mom was a choir for a chosen few;
She taught me sobriety,
Talked me out Of my depression,
Taught me to cling to the crumbs
Of his body,
And I did regain my health.

She was anointed
With prayed over oil, Driven
By powerful but silent Winds
On the wings
Of knowledge. I swallowed
Like a tiny nested bird
All the meat she fed me
In chunks,
But now that she's gone
I miss the choir singing
To dawn

Though I sing with another,
I thank God for giving her to me.

Don V Standeford

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