Fia Montero Poetry

***

Thackeray said

something like:

Mother is the name

for God

on the lips

and in the hearts

of little children.

What name, then,

should my lips

murmur, now?

She is ash

and I am godless.

***

The others recite

prayers

at the funeral,

I think.

Instead, I name

the flowers spread

across the room:

Tulip. Narcissus.

Iris.

Then, their parts:

Petal. Pistil.

Stamen. Stem.

I name them

because grief

is a thing

to be grown into

slowly—

the way a peony

moves

from tiny seed

to heavy bloom.

The way a body,

buried,

quietly unfolds

into its own telos.

***

Which is to say,

I’m still

working on it.

Which is to say,

I made pancakes

today, and cried.