Telescopes

My mother taught me
To mistrust young women.
I can see her in the swivel chair
In the dark maple den
Holding up a glass of scotch to her
Eyes like a telescope
And she hums with no melody.
She peers in my direction
And looks through me.
She won’t turn her mottled lens on me,
That would mean she
Acknowledges my living in this house.
The place where she will kill herself
Thirty years ago.