I buried my mother
in my journal in red ink
with large angry letters
that accused her of dying
on purpose just to spite me
I buried my mother
in the Firehole River at Yellowstone
among the towering green trees
with eagles soaring above
leaving me wondering if she watched
I buried my mother
when I was only 23
and she was 61
and then again in my heart
as I forgave a loss
that was never her fault
and red ink faded to green
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I drafted this poem during a poetry workshop at a writers conference I attended last weekend. I’ve made a few tweaks to the original. The instructor had shared a poem titled Little Father by Li-Young Lee and asked us to write a poem in the same style.