My Mother’s Last Christmas Mass; This Is How You Die – Two Poems By South African Poet, Toni Stuart

my mother’s last christmas mass

was in my arms. her thinning back

bony against my chest, both of us

lying on our right sides, facing

the window and the radio, playing

a live broadcast of a mass being said

somewhere in England that morning.

she was not crying from the pain

of her wound, where the malignant mass

had been removed six months ago but

still searing and tender, leaving her,

my mother, unable to sit up straight

or walk for too long or wash unaided.

she was crying with disappointment

I so much wanted to go to church.

it was the first time she let me hold her

as she cried. we didn’t know then

it would be the last.

this is how you die

strip.

the scarf that was your mother’s –let it fall

to your feet. do not fold your clothes neatly.

step into the fire, bare but sure-footed. let

flames lick the skin that is no longer yours.

pray under your breath without resisting.

flames have known your skin before:

remembering this is surrender; praying while aflame is grace.

when the skin has melted away, step out.

let the night cool your rawness. later,

it will rain as you walk home. the drops

will seal your flesh new. the lie will be

no more. you will not bargain truth for

belonging. a family who asks this of you

is not your home: leave immediately.

the night is your sister now. the rain

becomes your friend.

you will not speak of this.

your silence

and your walk

are all the words you will need.