In the Afterlife, Mother Acquires Birds

The tinsel of her hair shimmered, and the jays flew to Mother in a blue-black plume, as death had, unbidden. What language passed between them? Mother, no longer she, no longer age-torn skin, bone winnowed to thread, but roof, eaves, fascia and soffit. Did Mother beckon? Pat the curve of arm? Say, Rest here? 

No Sign of Mother 

I knew your death would come, and after, I’d find you–as my friend claims she discovered her late husband–in the lilacs, and another whose father wafts the scent of garlic through her dreams. I won’t say you’re the single red arc in a rainbow, or insist your soul inhabits the poodle in the park, gazing at my face like lovers long removed. Maybe you’ll return as Cleo, lolling on my pillow, body a calico crown cradling my head. Will you come back to me if I touch the brim of the fur hat you wore just once, still in its fancy box, its crown soft as evening?

Tina Barry is the author of I Tell Henrietta (Aim Higher, Inc., 2024) and Beautiful Raft and Mall Flower (Big Table Publishing, 2019 and 2016). Her poetry and short fiction can be found in Verse Daily, Rattle, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, SWWIM, Gyroscope, The Best Small Fictions 2020 (spotlighted story) and 2016, and elsewhere. Tina has five Pushcart Prize nominations and several Best of the Net and Best Microfiction nods. She teaches at The Poetry Barn and Writers.com.

A Song for Tina