|Apr/May 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
She mentions her wedding.
My eyes trace the age spots on her face—
it's an anxious medley on show today.
She breathes in forked winds,
I wait for the hurricane to pass.
Biscuit crumbs fall into her lap,
milk coagulates in a cold cup of tea,
an artificial rose flowers in vase
on a tray sprinkled with sugar spills.
She fingers white lace gloves,
perpetual monuments of duchess satin
and a winter churchyard
where she empties the compartments
of rational thought.
My heart unlatches itself.
A dragonfly flits against the window,
there is a spider corpse on the sill,
I hinge on the drone of a ceiling fan,
on voices bleeding from the corridor.
This morning as I filled lunch boxes for my children
I thought about this visit.
Who would I find today?
Not my mother/
she ended a long time ago.