Thursday, March 27, 2014

Whenever we say goodbye

When I fly away to Europe and then to California, 
and when she comes to visit and then goes home
and any time we part and know 
it will be long till we meet again,
my mother puckers up her lips in the shape 
of a fresh spring tulip and takes my face in her hands 
to crunch my cheeks, then kisses me--
a peck really--and then, in case we never meet again, 
she tells me--to be sure I know that once 
it had been good between us-- 
You have no idea how much I loved you
when you were my little blond girl. 
She would say this, I think, because, 
since that time, so much anger had blown
between us--its slag sticking on us.
But whenever we say goodbye, it all unsticks, 
rolls down the deep well of forgotten things. 
With each farewell, there's always that sweet moment 
of two awkward souls fumbling.

I really like

I really like
when the glassy mask slips off
my mother's face,
when the snug fit around her eyes and cheeks
comes undone,
when some electrical charge snaps
and she pops from the trance
when her extended laugh flips
her head around to some inner song
and she laughs like a diva 
when her words erupt all honey lava
and her mood spumes like champagne, 
when I can hear and smell her fizz.
I really like 
when she can be happy like that.