I saw my mother once reduced
To those good days that sent me rays of hope.
I couldn’t help but think: this good day
Means you’re getting better and soon
We’ll show them; I’ll be taking you right home.
What we call hope the ancient Greeks
Deemed elpis, a word that loses half its
Implications in translation. It had an edge to it,
That lingerer within a jar bequeathed
By jealous gods to take possession
Of defiant man and even up a score.
It was just such blind, delusive hope
That made recovery seem all so possible,
The ancient gods triumphant through
Their maddening elpis that had me
In its clutches – we call it hope against hope.
