In her poem, Letting Go of the Yard, the Sky, Carol Bachofner is really letting go of her mother as she imagines the stages of relinquishment her mother has passed through. It is an encounter with loss and death, but also an encounter with the many things the dying mother loved—sky and garden, a beloved dog, a tidy house—and so a daughter’s encounter with the life of her mother. It is also a daughter giving her mother permission to let go. I particularly love the image of the pollen stain after the irises have wilted. That is a lovely image for what remains of our loved ones—memory, yes, but also a kind of vitalizing spirit the dead can leave with us because of all our encounters with them.
Betsy Sholl, MAJ Poetry editor
Carol Willette Bachofner, poet, photographer, and watercolorist, served as Poet Laureate of Rockland, Maine, from 2012–16. She is the author of seven books of poetry. Her eighth, Every Place I Look, Women with Embers at Their Feet, is due out in fall 2025 from Main Street Rag.
Carol Bachofner, photo.
Letting Go of the Yard, the Sky
for my mother (1927–2005)
If you know you’re dying, start
by letting go of the sky. At first it’s hard
because of sunlight, bird song. Push away
from blue, the way you leave the table
when your belly’s full. Don’t bother
to excuse yourself or wipe your chin. Just push
back your chair and leave the dishes.
Draw the shades halfway, like lids sodden with sleep.
Now rid yourself of the yard, irises nodding
blue like the sky you don’t remember. The beds
choke with them. They need dividing, weeding—
but not by you. Someone will cut a few, angle
the ends, put them next to your bed. They go
like you, a petal at a time, until what remains
is the stain of pollen on the tabletop.
Your dog’s long-gone now. Don’t wonder
if he’ll be there waiting to nuzzle you in some
eternal parlor. His bones are ground
and spread in the yard you’ve forgotten. Give up
the collar you saved to remind you
of his warm fur against your cold skin.
Are there dishes in the sink? Don’t care now.
A tidy kitchen is someone else’s need.
Clatter of china, whoosh of faucet be still.
Is there dust on the buffet? Don’t care now. Someone
may write your name in it, next to the collar
of the dog you’ve already forgotten.
If you know you’re dying, pick a room
to die in. Choose a place for everything
you want to save until the end. Are the walls
the shade of lavender you love? Is your wedding quilt
on the bed? Choose, then lie down.
Start your journey with an open window to fly through,
even though you’ve let go of the yard, the sky.
Image at top: Carol Bachofner, photo.