Petition For The Woman Formerly Known As My Mother

My Lord, let the record show
she remembered everyone else
before this. If you must, take her
in teaspoons. Temper justice
with mercy. Let her forget
the wrong men, sharp belts, winters
with no oil in the tank, how to stretch
a pound until it weeps. Let her forget
grocery lists, swollen ankles, recipes,
how to turn salt into supper, all she gave
so I could be ungrateful. Let her forget
shame: every vowel it borrows, that house
that broke her hips, the three children
who stretched her body, deciding in month eight
our arms were no good. Let her forget the years
that folded her like linen, the plastic kindness
of nurses who call her sweetheart because
everyone forgets names. My Lord, she drank
your will like wine, wore Sundays like perfume.
I appeal, spare her the hallway that leads nowhere.
One more lucid hour where I am her
girl. Where the fog lifts for the sun to find her
face. Where she’s not holding the sky up or patient.

Christtie Jay is a storyteller whose work explores themes of memory, loss, and survival. Her writing has appeared on Prairie Schooner, BBC Radio, Lighthouse, A Long House, The Rumpus, among others. She is the author of the poetry album Grey Choir.