waitress poems

Thursday, May 19, 2005


From somewhere else, the child
invents herself, coiled inside
my son’s girlfriend. Though I do not
know her, still I plan.
I buy a crib, some fleecy clothes;
I hear her say my name.
Could I really be Nana now--
with black lace beneath my jeans?
I see my grandmother stalled
before the mirror,
touching her snowy perm.
Who is that? she asked.
And what’s become of my long braid?

But though the child
brings news of my extinction
etched on her furled palms,
I wash her clothes to soften them;
I hang them on the line
charging them with light and air.

Later, in secret, I keep watch
for the fairy tale crone
who hides in the mirror,
the one who follows
until it’s time to lead,
singing in the background
on the way to somewhere else.


Post a Comment

<< Home

Who Links Here