The Night She Passed
Debra Kaufman
Image by Alain Frechette
for Di
It is right that you, her first-born,
were witness to our mother's labor
as she left this troubled realm.
She always said she did not remember
the details of your birth—the ether—
claimed she didn't know she'd named you
for a goddess. Yet how like Diana
you are, who loves the woods,
a contrarian who depends on no man's
good word, seeks no god's blessing.
So much about you she never understood,
you found hard to forgive her for.
A waning gibbous moon rose
the night she passed, you said,
when energy slows, a time to reconnect.
Near the end she could not
call your name. It was enough
that you sat beside her on the bed,
told her, You have been a good mother,
let go now,
your work here is done.
Debra Kaufman
Debra Kaufman is the author of the poetry collections God Shattered, Delicate Thefts, The Next Moment, and A Certain Light, as well as three chapbooks and many monologues and short plays. She is working on her fifth full-length play and a poetry collection. Her most recent poems appeared in Poetry East, North Carolina Literary Review, Tar River Poetry, and Triggerfish. She produced Illuminated Dresses, a series of monologues by women, in 2019. Find Debra at debrakaufman.info.