Saturday, April 5, 2014


My mother leans on her walker, from her arm
dangle four knitted snowflakes.
Nice placemats! I say.

She shrieks as if the word placemat scalds her. 

You like them?  -- in her voice such hope.
Yes I do. Only half a lie.  
The knitting's well done, the pattern believable,
and I can feel the red in my gut.

But the snowflakes stay in the bottom 
drawer for decades
until last night when I place them 
under plates at my party. 
These doilies are lovely, someone remarks and
I want to jump from my chair and dance 
for my mother and for this guest who deserves
these doilies more than I but I just 
can't part with them.