What she loves

This poem came about from a prompt: "what she(he)loves. It's a list poem; lists can be revealing. I often write to find out what I love or what I think.

By Mo Conlan

Her granddaughter’s baby voice
piping through the phone
her first song –“A,B,C,D, EFG…”
Her cat Brody’s silken fur
and insistence on sprawling on her chest.
The memory of Jack,
who taught her she could shout,
with whom she felt for the first
time completely safe
sleeping in his arms.
Her father’s eyes that she sees
radiating wisdom and compassion
long years after his death.
Her soul sisters and blood sisters –
her singing sisters and writing sisters –
their laughter and their
knowing her.
Her daughter’s steadfast love
and forgiving grace.
The sun sinking into Lake Michigan
all gathered to see the purple-red-pink
flaming sky – and the after haze
in which they seem to see
strange, beautiful cities
and she imagines for a moment
going there and finding the others.

What she longs for:
Her mother’s love, her benediction,
still, after death and so many decades.
At least one more good dance around.
At least.

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