Mothers Day

My boss’ wife
smiled in amazement
upon seeing my mother
and I standing in a row.

“Sometimes you just know,”
she says. “It is so obvious,”
as she gathers up her own
young daughter into her arms.

“What is it like?”
I often ask myself,
knowing that looking
into the face of my mother
is like looking into a mirror
thirty years from now.

I am grateful –
truth be told,
to know that she
found her voice
and that it shows
all over her face.

And I am hopeful
she has bequeathed
me the same fate.
~ 5/8/16
I look up
at the noise,
furtively rooting
out its origin,
to see a piece
of trash dancing
across the cobblestones

And only then
do I breathe.
Confident that
the ghosts are
at rest or
at least aren’t

And maybe
she is grateful
that I am here,
and thinking
only of you
on this day.
~ 5/8/16

A set for you. I spent Saturday with my mother, and therefore had Sunday free to go to the park and read books and write poetry about my mother still here, and other mothers I’ve known, who aren’t here anymore.


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