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.
When the poet said blue city of bees
I was reminded of the blue cotton robe
my husband gave me, a shade my mother loved
I’m from the ocean’s melancholy, dragging
its anchors back & forth, never quiet, never
still, waves so restless they can’t mirror the moon.
A mother who lived to peel apples,
bake the most exquisite pies. Suffuse the air
with delicious love. A father gah-gah for fossils,
mummies, cow manure.
Back then she and her mother waited for the phone to ring, for money to plump itself up and walk through their door. Moments passed with yarn and crochet hooks.