Eclipsing, Again

I am travelling toward the path of totality, 
hungry for spirit in science. 
Eclipsing again. This time as a cat mother, 
sharp-clawed and self-centered. 
Quick to take offence. Slow to forgive. 

The tires of the Prius roll westward
into the easterly spin of the earth. 
We pass through the town where my mother died 
and I realize there is no direction for me there anymore. 
No adequate explanation. No beacon of remorse.  
No focal point for self reproach.  
Perhaps the time has finally come 
to turn away from the path of my own mothering. 

We arrive amid welcoming strangers 
just as the moon begins to cover the sun. 
A small boy mistakes me for his grandmother
and runs away disappointed. 
Suddenly everything seems symbolic. 
My stomach lurches and I want to gather 
all that I am and all that I’ve been 
and send it through the black hole 
moving through the sun. 

And mother moon glides on, dark and oblivious. 
Her face is turned away from us. 
The birds are silent. The air is still. 
Shadows fall in every direction and we are all 
ravenous. Ghostly children standing stubborn 
in liminal light, tilting our heads upward 
with our mouths wide open like tiny chicks waiting to be fed. 

This poem was published in the November 2024 issue of Bywords, Ottawa’s online poetry publication.

Cover image by Michelle Edwards Hudson, adapted in Prisma app with Broadway.