Now she's a mother who needs to rest against
a pole while waiting in line.
Now she's a mother who naps every few hours
who is out of breath
fingering plastic straws which replace
the cigarettes that have ultimately...
Now she is a mother who has to plan
how long she'll be away from a chair
when deciding on places to go.
Now she's a mother who must watch
her daughter collapse like a sad accordian
and she forgives this daughter
because she knows her.
The call of morning doves annoy her early
in the morning
but she sits in her wooded palace, reading
"Midwest Living" and drinking coffee.
This she did as a healthy mother,
a cancerless, massless mother.
Her daughter has spent the night
and the mother cuts up strawberries for her breakfast.
A glass of cranberry juice sits at her place,
but, having forgotten, she sets another
down, scratches her head, half laughs, shrugs;
her daughter wonders if this will worsen.
Except for the juice, this is the daughter's
regular mother, but now a row of pills stretches
out in front of her.
Now she is a mother who must take drugs
not to cry, to breathe better, to think better,
to not walk with her right foot dragging.
Her daughter watches her walk,
watches her adjust her handkerchief
over the scarcity of hair that is there,
thin white bird feathers.
They talk at night, as they did in high school;
her daughter spills open,
hiccups and cries, finally admits that
she's afraid she's killing her by thinking the worst.
She wants deserpately to cling to her mother's lap
but for some reason that doesn't happen.
Now she's a mother who must watch others
cry for her, fall apart for her
and she's a mother who must watch
fakery, teary smiles, encouraging nods.
Now she's a detective of truth.
She browses books she can't concentrate on.
The only book she can tolerate is her
calendar of events, her schedule of treatments.

06/25/2006

Posted on 06/25/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky