Thursday, November 5, 2009
By: Jane Feige
She sits upon her single bed,
supporting a frame.
It's moving to see my mother sit as I would.
Various chips are brought out -- "My parents never cared for me."
The good ones always go fast.
We discuss how Newark airport transformed to
a '52 Brazilian bus station --
the two hours, or so she said,
I delayed, when she waited.
On that day,
she had a tram of bags unsystematically stacked,
on the other day, at that age when one's choices are bedridden and or bullied --
It was one valise then.
Watching my mother's age ten eyes omit
ground water from the inner core of her preserved theories.
"They sent me away, only me, the only one of fourteen."
Mom, is it okay if I take this from you for a while?
I promise to give it back when I've changed it.
I can take it to the courtyard and treat it as we did the grass --
There's only weeds back there now.
"All this time --
I thought this washed from my hair."
I'll wash your hair for you.
(Above: My Mother.)