“Prayer,” by Larry Levis

When I look out of this upstairs window I notice my motherWalking out—actually reeling slightly by now in her old age withHer pure white hair beneath the twin colonnades of fading palm fronds,A homemade sail. She tacks slowly as a boat in a light wind, from one sideOf the gravel driveway to the other, & I could almost believeThe scene is Mediterranean, for there are still two unshattered, antiqueFrench teacups on this sill, but my mother has no rudder, no keel,And no idea of how far out at sea she is. She is just going outTo get the mail—which is at the end of a half-mile walk throughPalms, cypresses, & orange trees. In Italy, outside the little hill townsSuch as Montone, a row of cypresses always meant a cemeteryAnd the resurrection of the dead. This is the San Joaquin Valley & theyDon’t mean anything here—though my father is dead, & though my wife & son liveEast of two mountain ranges, & out of my hearing. She knows it’s too late for this,And possibly she even knows she is about to vanish soonAnd leave only the palms behind her. No one’s home, & stillMy mother is determined to get this ounce of exercise, this walk. She is,I think, almost as friendless at this moment as I am friendless.From the way she lists, I even suspect that she must be part windHerself by now. And now I notice that the faded khaki of the palm frondsAbove her is the exact shade of my father’s shirts, & by nowI am remembering her hair against his chest on the day he had to goInto the hospital. He had to go somewhere because he had to dieOf Parkinson’s disease—something he accomplished with difficultyAnd without his usual contempt for style. Though he was always & at once humble &Uncompromised before others. Even such as You. Though You must remember himAt least as well as I do. Think hard, Lord, because I loveThe way she weaves from one side of this driveway to the other.I love her simple determination to continue. And I keep watching herWeave this way slowly & then that way until I think I might even be ableTo save my own son from this final disorder of loss. I knowThat everything I look out upon will vanish, & I know it is onlyThe simple juxtaposition of two colors—her white hair againstThe dead, fading, & blankly swaying palm fronds. But I haveAlways been astonished at any sort of permanence, & so, Thank You.Before everything I look out upon has vanished: Thank You.

This is drawn from “Swirl & Vortex: Collected Poems of Larry Levis.”