We stand parallel,
our mothers both sick
from their own cancer.
You a nine year old with two ropes
of braided hair falling down your back,
caught in the clutches of the 50's,
me in present day, hating who I've cultivated
over the years, stuck at different speed bumps
along the way.
The twenty-seven year old I both abhor
and seek forgiveness from.

In 1955 and 2006, our mothers are sick
and reading your blue, dream-like book,
I want to hide with you in your mother's closet
under her fur coat, running my fingers
through the waves of your loosened hair.
I want us to hold on together.

You have things to teach me:
how to pray for my mother's life
and sometimes I feel inconsolable, sometimes angry.
My mother will not die, I state stubbornly
as I look into your young, mournful eyes
and it's then that I become smaller,
with less inhibitions,
I shrink to nine, your equal,
and we hold onto each other,
each whispering,
"I'm scared."

04/04/2006

Author's Note: for Alison and in reference to her spectacular poetry collection, "The White Dress."

Posted on 04/04/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky