Marybeth Rua-Larsen

And Every Breath A Test

I drift beside the casket, ignore advice

and look: my neighbour’s daughter, her stillness,

her waxy, powdered face can’t hide her illness –

why do this? Arrange her hands, sacrifice

her spirit. She’s not a crocus in the snow

testing winter’s willingness to let go

and every breath a test.

They’ve lost their daughter. Will this endless crush

of mourners ease their pain? One more arrangement

with daisies, her favourite; they make a floral fuss

while schoolmates cringe at her disfigurement.

An easel full of pictures boasts her former face,

then topples over in a stranger’s rush for grace

and every breath a test.

Once home, I heave myself into a chair,

feel my daughter, dirty from the sandbox,

climb into my lap. She pushes, unlocks

my arms, circles like a cat, bangs her fair,

unruly head onto my chest to sleep.

The weight of her immobilizes me

with every breath a test.