“Weariness has, in fact, won in this room.” —Lorraine Hansberry
A Raisin In The Sun
the tiny room is empty no one here to perform the ceremony
yet the water stands
I have it seems walked foggy-eyed into a baptism of sorts
no elders behind me weeping in the pews no guttural amens
the olive branch to the pastor’s sermon neither are there sing-songy
negro spirituals to accompany my cleansing
just me the dull-grey bathroom tiles and every tap overflowing
I am mistaken again
someone should tell you that you will remember nothing soon after the words
she is dying pass between the doctor’s lips you will cease looking both ways
before crossing streets cut ties between yourself and friends because lunch cocktails and catching up feel cruel in a world that she is leaving
you will be unable to sleep at first it will be the restlessness
evolving into night terrors for even id and ego
are confused about how best to navigate the world without her
the man you love will revisit every room you have left
turning down lights
ensuring the gas is off
or that you have pulled your keys from the front door
for you are no longer credible to yourself
you cry until you break rebuilding for brief respites sojourns to the market
so that your house does not starve in the middle of her dying
nothing more is safe you reside in a world made loose
once held together by her prayers
and now this
the flooding room a flooded room
to match the tidewater of your pain
we are not meant to lose our mothers no matter the age
are not built to suffer the indignity anguish confinement of spirit
the infinite wondering of what this all means now
when you have questions and you haven’t quite finished growing up yet
have no children of your own and therefore are still hers
and you are searching still for her true name
not what she is called but the name she has longed to answer to
and you have much to say a desire to gift her your true name
the one you have learned to call yourself ride nay float upon
even when it is difficult
and you haven’t gotten to the part yet when you are meant to become friends
swapping honest stories about the hard-going of black skin
no matter the variation
haven’t yet talked of the detailed mystery
of breasts hips thighs
thought flesh the matter of life
it ought to set your body to stone
the knowing-ness of the coming world without her
and yet you breathe out of habit
forgetting what you need to remember like now
that you are cleaning your home a sojourn brief respite
so that your house does not starve while she is dying
pretending as she begins to forget
living while the collapse of life has begun within her
perhaps today you forgot on purpose because the rising water feels good
about your ankles it is settling cool full of intention
perhaps today you will take your time with this mishap
clean it away in a minute or two maybe five later
and sit instead passing the water over your body
face hands your dreaded hair
because she has taught you how
to clean the fruit bathe the meat prepare
your black body for each new day
even this
the soon-coming of the going on without her