Crossing with Mother

(c) 2017 

Mother is always crossing the wrong street—

at the wrong corner—

moving the wrong way.

 

We cross together—

arguing the steps.

 

At some point I began turning

the right way.

I left her behind,

first in guilt, then glee.

 

I haven’t always been careful.

Once my heel caught

in a sewer grate.

A crowd gathered to jeer.

 

Right way, wrong way—who knows?

The streets are endless.

With each passing decade

they lose luster.

HOARD

 (c) 8/7/2021

To mother it all has equal value—

the loose, stripped screw,

plastic Happy Meal toys,

a pharmaceutical bottle filled with teeth.

 

But from which of five mouths?

 

All of it mixed into boxes

alongside recipes never used

instead of TV dinners—

 

unopened greeting cards,

clipped articles

unrelated to any of us.

 

How could anyone find memory

in these scraps?

 

Here—decades of gift cards.

a growing stack.

Like other sensual experiences

she chose to miss,

 

these are now wallet-sized milestones

of the economy—,

restaurants closed

in the last recession,

or the one before it.

 

The bathroom cabinet filled with

soured cologne,

makeup—glumpy, dried—

my sister and I bought her

in junior high.

 

Mother wanted

 but was startled by touch.

 

In a sock drawer,

the golden apple paperweight

I bought her

with my first paycheck—

still in its red velveteen bag.

 

Every table stacked with paper.

 

Nothing I offered

was ever used.

 

Now she is being moved

from four stories to one room.

She prepares to dig in--

to fight the neighbors

over noise, parking,

property lines:

those goddamn bastards

 

For years she has forgotten

to clean the litter.

The floorboards need replacing.

 

Mother imagines every trinket,

every scrap will go with her—

even the shoes she wore

at her wedding seventy years ago,

now disintegrating.  

 

She refuses to believe

we would be callous enough

to send the hoard—

unwanted—

 to a landfill.

Scent

 (c) 8/7/2021

I want to summon your scent

the way I summon

a facsimile of your smile—

 

crooked teeth,

wide mouth,

leaning against your first muscle car.

 

Moles on your shoulder.

Impossible phrasing

as if each word

surprised you.

 

Maybe I heard my name—

once—

clear, unbroken.

I needed that tenderness.

 

But your scent—

 

I remember wanting it.

Breathing it in,

again and again—

 

and now

nothing.

 

Not like rain,

or cut grass,

or the lilac bush next door—

those stay.

 

Yours is gone.