Home Without a Compass
Part 1: Mother
When I go to bed nights,
I think of my mother.
She has the most beautiful sheets,
With roses and violets
on green swirling stems.
I fancy her legs slipping
into the cool cotton sheath,
and oh, how I've envied
the tranquil adieu!
The truth is, my mother’s legs are blue,
varicosed and gnarled --
And a secret quarrel, until now.
She would deny being haunted,
resting thus alone,
my father dreaming elsewhere,
in a graveyard nearby,
his nocturnal symphonies silenced,
which once gave such grief.
She always beds down fresh,
in frills too girlish for sixty,
but fantasies do so prevail.
Her legs, pampered in proportion
to their disappointment,
divine the kind caress,
and begin to feel heavy,
like the marble they are;
soon, even they are floating
as gently she tumbles,
like a fetus,
a womb unto herself.
My mother is a ghost
in the garden of perfect selves.
She is a sandwich of flowers.
Copyright Julianza (Julie) Shavin 2006