Moment
Moment
by Carol Gloor
At the moment of my mother’s death
I am rinsing frozen chicken.
No vision, no rending
of the temple curtain, only
the soft give of meat.
I had not seen her in four days.
I thought her better,
and the hospital did not call,
so I am fresh from
an office Christmas party,
scotch on my breath
as I answer the phone.
And in one moment all my past acts
become irrevocable.
An excruciating holiday experience pitting death against life. Great details, “the soft give of meat” evoking both tenderness and mortality; “I am fresh from an office Christmas party, scotch on my breath,” both festivity and frivolity, at the moment of the phone call ministering a sense of destiny and personal guilt. Simply and effectively done.