My Mother Was No White Dove
Reginald Shepherd
no dove at all, coo-rooing through the dusk
and foraging for small seeds
My mother was the clouded-over night
a moon swims through, the dark against which stars
switch themselves on, so many already dead
by now (stars switch themselves off
and are my mother, she was never
so celestial, so clearly seen)
My mother was the murderous flight of crows
stilled, black plumage gleaming
among black branches, taken
for nocturnal leaves, the difference
between two darks:
a cacophony of needs
in the bare tree silhouette,
a flight of feathers, scattering
black. She was the night
streetlights oppose (perch
for the crows, their purchase on sight),
obscure bruise across the sky
making up names for rain
My mother always falling
was never snow, no kind
of bird, pigeon or crow
I found this poem on an excursion through poems whose first line begins with the letter "N" on poets.org. I am a collector of poems that go against the grain. This poem neither lauds nor damns, it shows an image of mother slant, she is an "obscure bruise", is "always falling", "not so celestial" and a "murderous flight of crows". Lord knows I've tried my best as a mother, but I too am not of the celestial ilk. I'd like to think the color of my night sky gleams not too darkly.
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