She is thoroughly wet
through & through

as if a someone
(I don’t know who)

had upended
a bucket of water

over her.

The rain holds
a conversation with itself.

“Where’s your
new coat? ”

we incredulously ask her
as she continues

to drip
at us.

The rain is laughing
at something it has told itself.

“A poor woman
hadn’t one...”

“...so I gave her
mine.”

She explains
as to a child.

We her children
stare at her

Hair plastered
to her skull

A large drip
at the end of her nose..

My mother
could be kind

in an almost
Biblical New Testament way

as if she were Jesus Christ
before he had gotten himself crucified

and was alive and well
and living in her.

Dónall Dempsey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jesus-christ-is-alive-and-well-in-memory-of-my-mother-ita/