FD Jackson

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—after Carel Fabritius’ The Goldfinch

My mother looks out the patio doors,
Her tears a torrent, enough to overflow riverbanks.
Dark green water, mingling with the scent of
White Linen perfume, flooding fields of
strawberries, sweet peas, melons, and sunflowers.
Creeping across railroad tracks, swallowing dirt roads.

Her cheeks flush with red as she drinks her morning tea.
Black eyes flit, reflecting blue firmament.
Flashes of golden sunlight shimmer across the sides of her
billowing white nightgown, bolts of iridescent yellow
painting the ends of her wings.

I think of all the things that might keep her here with me–
the promise of dazzling red canna lilies blooming,
turreted by great aubergine leaves, crinkly pink
crepe myrtle flowers blowing across freshly cut grass,
bluebirds building nests with chestnut colored horsehair
and bits of cerulean colored yarn.

I wade the cascade of her tears wearing tiny pink rubber boots.
I’m eight, and I know why she cries–I’m the little chain
attached to her well-turned ankle. If not for me, she could
fly away across the expanse of rising river water to
make her home somewhere brighter.

FD Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the transformative power of nature. When she is not writing or reading, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. FD’s works have appeared or are forthcoming in Rat’s Ass Review, FERAL, Wild Roof Journal, and Amethyst Review.