"i have to go home to Mother.
i have the bread she wanted. it's stale as a grandfather clock
but what do we care?"
she’s not with us. shaking
like suicidal petals in strong wind
she fetches the bread; gets
on the train to Yosemite; meets
my grandfather; gives
him ultimatums about living in the West,
converting.
and I have blinked twice,
she is off again
substitute-teaching supported by
unlit cigarettes and Sicilian squinting—
making star pasta for grandchildren
tugging at her lemon apron--
what are these words shaping in her mouth
but not emerging?
i lean over the disposable bed
to give her our name to inhale
she bites
because time is fragile and she is not.
a moment ago she wrapped herself in her mother's skirt
turned when boys called "hey giraffe!" on the schoolyard
(the long walk home)
in this white room with sterile tile
and MRSA swept in the corner
and bed rails, and kidney pans
she eats roses
blooming with time.
No comments:
Post a Comment