The Acolyte

My Mother's MadnessThe memory returns every January, blurred like rain on a cracked window.The ground around us shiftingas narratives were bent and tilted,Hades ascending.You left with himjust before the witching hour,silty loam and mud freezing solid for the winter.I summoned Lazarus for his official position on the matter,gummed pomegranate seedsand asked Orpheus for the handbookon calling back lost ones.This was no abduction, they cried,no death but your own.Nonetheless, every year my hands grow numb, turn intoclumsy birds fluttering againstour burial, a frantic clawingof fingers raked in dirt,stained beyond recognition.By dusk I curl up, rooted to the spot,and wait for summer,for a torrent of suns to unleash and wash me clean.