I thought I saw my mother 
on television, her hair 
cut in a swingy pageboy, 
mouth chiseled with dark lipstick. 
She was manicured and pointing, 
hands sweeping across a map 
of the Midwest, isobars 
clinging to the back of her arms 
like spider webs. She’d just quit 
her stint as housewife, shrugged off 
forty years as martyr and ended 
her long term relationship 
with dust and elbow macaroni.
Stunned, I tried to change the channel,
to relentless morning 
news or a clearance sale on Egyptian 
jewelry, watch an infomercial 
hawking salvation through better skin.
But I kept coming back, surprised 
to see how satisfied she was, 
how well she controlled someone 
else’s day, pleased to advise 
people in Tomah to wear their raincoats, 
adding that those in La Crosse could 
leave their umbrellas at home.

From Flight Patterns, winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest.
Used here with the author’s permission.