Mom, my own religion #5

I’m sorry for asking questions

a mother isn’t made to answer

—spirit or otherwise.

So many times I addressed you,

Why won’t you let me die?

Last winter I asked you to lay

me down with a morning snow

to watch it build on branches

one last time.

Please don’t confuse my recent

infatuation with life with a desire

not to see you.

I picture you clearly enough in this fight too.

When I sip my morning coffee and write

you’re reading your heavily noted bible

alongside. I’m still trying to refrain from

pestering you from your meditation.

When I spend time with my little brother,

whose first months were your last, and my partner,

who you never had the chance to meet,

I’m picking up our lost minutes.

This morning I sit by the window and we watch the

hoarfrost grow, just as we will next time it snows.

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Bea Morrow is a transfemme photo poet based in Minneapolis, MN. She recently graduated from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design with a Photography BFA. Her self-published books have been collected by MCAD and the Hennepin County Library’s artist book collections.