Oct/Nov 2001 • Poetry • Special Feature |
My Mother Had Hazel Eyes
My mother had hazel eyes:
green, dark green,
so green they were black as midnight
skies over the rings of incense smokethat drifted over me.
My mother was short
and she listened to Gershwin
a lot and drank tonic and ginwith my sister, because the men
in our family don't drink,
or so I'm told.
When I was a childmy mother with her hazel eyes
told me to hold on tight
so I wouldn't splatter on
the asphalt when that Canadianrollercoaster went inverted
and put everyone in danger
except my mother--because my
mother didn't touch thebar but gripped me hard when
we looked up and saw the earth
on a day of summer.
My mother with her hazel eyesknew there was no danger,
but she would never terrify
me without reasons.
I love her,I've always loved her,
but I never drink tonic and gin
and I never listen to Gershwin
and I don't care when mymother's sisters say I've left
our close knit family fold.
All I know is my eyes are
brown like rings of incense smoke.
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