Surrender, A Prayer for My Mother

Lindsay Wilson

Listen, dark one, as the sun sets,

the boxelder beetles come down
from the west wall to fly back

to their nymph tree, and in this late light

the long ash leaves look like the points
of bronze spears, dark and bloody

with the busy blush of the beetles’ scarlet

wings. After the sun falls below
the Sierras, and the sundial becomes

useless under these lengthening shadows,

the fine-armed daughters of night
will sever your tether to this dim world,

then, dark one, you will no longer

be bound to this place. You will lay
down your spears. You will find

your red-black wings.