CALL ME BELOVED

Is there some holy center left behind
that remembers, weak candlelight
which could flicker and grow –

like how I see your handwriting
each time I open my bottom drawer,
how grief can twist like longing –

this is what I want to believe.
That motherhood is a clumsy mantle,
best dealt with as it comes, that

the daughter you raised as a son
meant more than some baby doll
you still miss, some beloved relic

you left claw marks in letting go –
I’ve written you all of these poems.
I wonder what you know.