How can I judge the worth of a brooding life?
In a busy restaurant my giant son leans his head on my shoulder,
and I am his mother again, lifting his memory into my arms.
I think of thee in these far happier days
now that I don’t have sex every night or carry two fat boys,
one on each hip, up small mountains,
I have to go to exercise class
where Route 100 meets School Street,
two cows graze.
Did she believe—she did, I think— the right
cliché could save us, help us not to feel
alone, so many bees in that same hive—
spilt milk, sow’s ear, Achilles heel.
In the Wellesley
spread in rows
I don’t want to complain about my mother, because she did a lot of nice things. Some very considerate things. She came to Boston when my younger son was born … Continue reading
Here are my two sons in 1968
In their father’s arms.
He looks harmless.
They look doubtful and uneasy.
I hoped returning
would spark memories, fill her with light,
the way the heat of day warms the bones.