© 2018 Jo Page

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A villanelle for my mother, since a letter won't do

September 25, 2012

 

My beta-blocker sends me dreams of my mother,
Dead thirteen years—well, there’s humor in numbers!

And of course I would dream of her before others,
 

Which is what she would have as her absolute druthers—

Top-billed in the cast-list of her last daughter’s slumbers.

My beta-blocker sends me dreams of my mother.

 

She’s reasonable, affable, no kind of bother,

She breathes without oxygen, just with port in a tumbler

And of course I would dream of her before others.

 

Why not? Now she’s easy, past baffling-wonder.

I no longer need fear that red-headed rumbler.

I welcome the dreams of my red-headed mother.

 

We spar or we quarrel and we mostly just putter,

As daft as ever, neither kinder nor humbler.

And of course I would dream of her before others.

 

Because I have lived my whole life as her daughter, 

Her blessings and burdens entwine to encumber

The beta-block dreams I have of my mother.

--And of course I would dream of her before others.  

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I'm a writer, yoga teacher, Lutheran pastor, and music nerd living in New York. I find a feast in daily living - most days, anyway - and write about it here. 

Finalist for the 2017 Chautauqua Prize!
The frank and funny story of a church-geek girl who spent twenty years in the ecclesiastical trenches as a Lutheran pastor, preaching weekly words of hope she wasn’t sure she even believed.