by Bruce Bond
My mother's calendars gave heartache
a geography, a map, a tiny scripture
she labored to make fit, like the great
names of rivers that overflow their shores.
They gave drudgery a place to lie,
to relish, each calendar window filled
with weary obligation, day by day
inked in the perfect posture of a child
without a childhood. So when she died,
when I found them in a drawer, I wondered:
was their useless use meant for us.
Or was it just too difficult to toss
their sacrificial order, the hours they kept.
So yes, I tossed them, never to forget.