Thursday, March 20, 2014

Poem: Cameo


Cameo

I am uphill from the picnic,
watching the clan, when my
late mother hands me a cupcake.

It’s good to see you, Mom,
but shouldn’t we tell the others?

She presses a chih to the
side of her cheek, a
puff of steam.

Look at them, they’re doing so
well, I wouldn’t want to
make a fuss.

But I don’t get how this
happened. Why aren’t you dead?

I don’t understand it myself.
But it’s sure nice to see everyone.


I don’t know. I feel sort of guilty.

She traces a hand on the
side of my temple.

I think you were born thirty years old.

A dog barks.

Our labrador sits on his rug
like a Sphinx, his gaze fixed on
the door. At the end of an hour,
my landlady’s absence has
pushed his whining into birdsong.


From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV

No comments: