Stormy

There are no clear instructions for waving goodbye
to the woman in red flannel. Mother. Old spine.

She claws herself upright, stands
against the crumbling door jamb, dinosaur bird

waving back at me. There are no
instructions for when the parent says no

except for the heart to carapace,
wait her out through another snow,

let the forms for Maple Grove pulse with ink,
the signature line wash white with storm.

I no longer wonder if a goodbye is the last,
ask instead how a body can last so long.

   *     *     *

This poem originally appeared in Prairie Schooner, Spring 2017.

M.L. Brown is the author of Drought, winner of the Claudia Emerson Poetry Chapbook Award. Her poems have appeared in various journals including The Valparaiso Poetry Review, Gertrude, The Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and PMS PoemMemoirStory. When not working on her poetry, Ms. Brown devotes her time to raising funds for Planned Parenthood.