By Dion O’Reilly

Old Mother, you might, in your final days, bloom—
your century of violence, crumble,

to false memories of full tables, fire glint of quiet
evenings. You, Old Mother, might

become the benevolent queen
of my own, small country—

the open-assed cotton you live in might
become a ball gown of light, lit

web of warmth, and your fingers
witched by the urge to whip, become benediction

on the warm foreheads of babies. Look, Old Mother, you knew
how to love. Remember your chicks? You took eggs to the broody

hens, watched them sit, breathed in
the straw smell of fluff, watched the chicks slip

from slick serum and cracked shell.

So here I am again, in your final room, bringing
egg flower soup, hot tea, rice pudding,

thinking when I lift you from the commode,
you’ll whisper Thank you. That when I show

you the photo of my father, your
husband, both of you so young, soaring

in your early heat, you won’t say,
Throw him away. No, you won’t say that.

There’s too much love, lost within
me, to imagine such a thing.

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Dion O’Reilly’s debut collection, Ghost Dogs, was runner-up for The Catamaran Prize and shortlisted for The Eric Hoffer Award. Her second book, Sadness of the Apex Predator, will be published by University of Wisconsin’s Cornerstone Press in 2024. Her work appears in The Sun, Rattle, The Cincinnati Review, Narrative, The Slowdown, and elsewhere. She facilitates private workshops and hosts a podcast at The Hive Poetry Collective.