She is thoroughly wet <br />through & through <br /> <br />as if a someone <br />(I don’t know who) <br /> <br />had upended <br />a bucket of water <br /> <br />over her. <br /> <br />The rain holds <br />a conversation with itself. <br /> <br />“Where’s your <br />new coat? ” <br /> <br />we incredulously ask her <br />as she continues <br /> <br />to drip <br />at us. <br /> <br />The rain is laughing <br />at something it has told itself. <br /> <br />“A poor woman <br />hadn’t one...” <br /> <br />“...so I gave her <br />mine.” <br /> <br />She explains <br />as to a child. <br /> <br />We her children <br />stare at her <br /> <br />Hair plastered <br />to her skull <br /> <br />A large drip <br />at the end of her nose.. <br /> <br />My mother <br />could be kind <br /> <br />in an almost <br />Biblical New Testament way <br /> <br />as if she were Jesus Christ <br />before he had gotten himself crucified <br /> <br />and was alive and well <br />and living in her.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jesus-christ-is-alive-and-well-in-memory-of-my-mother-ita/
