when my mother died
so did our language
the one we spoke
each day at the kitchen table
each night by the hum
of the television
on the telephone between visits
the language that dropped
from the open window above
her garden
while she pruned and tied and watered
an old language
perfect for prayers she whispered
songs she sang
it lived between us
like the child we both loved
now i must slide my fingers over this
miracle of technology
to hear her voice
this new world has no need for
old languages
but while i am here
i will hold it safe
in the limbo of my gut
Read the Italian translation of this poem here.
Gianna Patriarca was born in Ceprano, Italy. Her family immigrated to Canada in l960. Gianna is the author of eleven books. Her most recent collection is To The Men Who Write Goodbye Letters (Inanna 2020). Read a review here.
