Staying still to wonder when she dies, my mother,
Her hair furled to grey and that lifeless tint on her lips,
And that cold-bodied touch, much like I at night
In the witching hour, with my knees to my chest and my eyes
To my scalp.

I hear it now, that rain; the sky has a heartbeat,
And yet it dies when the sun spits away the rheumy
Clouds; but, o', my mother, what sun
Spits her to naught? You see her wither to stigmata
That the plants dry

As she returns to her earth, folded.
When she dies, my mother, what will I be but
A daughter – no other, no, no soul; she gave me life
And in her death will that life not be
Retracted?

I am steady now, steady; these cheeks are wet
And these palms flush, and in witching hours
The wraiths still knock, though none my mother;
Will she knock, I wonder, will she knock,
Or will the glass-pane drip

To dewy haze, nothing more than water-play
On the sheet glass? Mother, stay,
Don't die, nay – don't leave, don't let
The sun burst you out in her thick flambeau,
Don't go, don't go.

I can't sleep, you won't,
Not 'til I first will dress the wet earth.