My mama's house
has childless rooms
quiet halls—
Mama's filled her emptiness
with furniture and plush decor
from magazines. Soft pastels coat
all her walls like icing
little kids would love
to lick. The overstuffed sofa sits
there like a fat lady's lap—
soft and inviting—ready for stories.
Vases instead of jelly jars
grace the polished tables
and silk flowers blossom
instead of child-harvest weeds.
Only the ghosts of memories
remain—hidden and sought—
behind cleaned chairs
and always closed closets.
Mama is very rarely
in her house anymore
to enjoy the beauty of things
she had imagined important. Once.
From Zen Fishing and Other Southern Pleasures (Ocean Publishing, 2005).
This poem first appeared in the International Poetry Review (Volume XVII, No. 2)
Used with the author's permission.
|