Wednesday, March 26, 2008


Dreams lay in folds of my mother’s dress.
She wore it day and night that summer.
Stitched into her fabric, her fiber, I thought, confusing the two.
Flowers bloomed on it while my dreams rested.
Waiting to pounce at chances now come and gone.

In that summer they remained burrowed, sleepy-eyed,
safe-keeping all promise of the possibles.

The horizon. My mother, she walked along that fur-lined
path going further than I could see.
On and on and out of sight.
My cheek on her lap later, sunny whiffs,
while she ignored the busy ants on their hike up her leg.

Warm, too warm, I sprang up suddenly, rubbing her off
against the cool plaster wall.
Soon I began to notice the earth
lodged underneath her nails.
And hate her for it.

She took it wherever she went.

Her thighs rubbed together, her dress swooshing
all the while: mounds, hills, and every other protuberance.
Perturbing me. Even her face was rounded;
that skin of sunburnt yolk.
When I brought her a lacquered butterfly,
she began to look at me sideways.

And I started to iron her dress.

No comments: