Member Poem

Strangely, the grass grows more slowly on this
plot of ground, now my mother’s home.
Martyred
roses, stiffened by hidden harnesses,
cling to the small space of white bone-
hard earth
washed dry from tears of useless begging
on knees worn to callouses
by hours.
Forgiveness cannot come from trudging
to place on this sealed silence
my flowers.
 
          -Trish Lindsey Jaggers