To My Mother, at Fifty
You call to tell me what you cannot have
at your party, what the doctor will condemn:
frosted cake, white wine, black crepe paper.
Later, we stand in your kitchen, washing
the approved-of strawberries, and you tell me about a man
who would have taken us both, when I was three. Fervor–
would that have drawn you out of bed
more in all those years? Would you have raised me
from my sheets, instead of I, with a coffee cup, pulling
you? My younger sisters rush in, the ones who provide
the grandchildren, and you forget him again. The lives we leave
unled rest in drawers, curling at the edges, and they crumble
in the light. The unborn children loll in jars
at the back of the cupboard. Tonight, I will wash
out the leafy stems of your stories, collect the dirt,
and you will act as though you do not see. The grains
of what you don’t know about me would weigh
that sink through the floor, but you hand
me a strawberry and ask: Is it clean? I can’t tell
the difference between seeds and soil.
3 replies on “To My Mother, at Fifty”
I love how the images help move the narrative of the poem through different periods of time. Its the kind of poem to read over and over. Thanks!
Bethaby,
thank you for this powerful poem of lives inked and the delicate balance between mother and daughter. I love
The coffee cup reference and the stories as leaves.
Bravo!
My favorite line: “the leafy stems of your stories.” Thanks