mama's day eve

Mama’s Day Eve 2013

Her marker’s almost run dry, girls with curls in triangular skirts,

blue balloons on long, red strings.

She pauses to take a wet bite of pear, the juice

sticky on her hands, then rubbed into the wooden chair back.

She’ll be six soon.  The May clouds surreal in their perfection,

green of leaves twinkle softly in late afternoon sun,

shadows and light, their gentle shift.

Last night our oldest buddy sat in this chair, his girl beside him.

They told us their plans of building a new life in a new town,

of housing prices and recreation opportunities. 

We made our way through the wine, our laughter growing louder,

the bass keeping us young, the children asleep

down the hall.

“This is one fat, red heart I’m drawing, Mama.  It’s for you, but don’t look!”

We leave glasses and plates, shards of baguette and oil thick with garlic,

our neglect of the kitchen a small, unifying rebellion

and move slowly towards the bedroom, the lines more pronounced beneath our eyes.

I dreamed about this moment:

Writing poems in my book, my girl across the table drawing away,

Joni Mitchell croons her raspy range through the radio,

The breeze easy through the open door.

“I know what a person who makes books is called:  a journalist.  I’m gonna draw one of those flowers that you taught me, Mama.”

I pour myself more pinot, watch the way they watch each other.

They haven’t spent more than eleven consecutive days together.

She's beautiful.  He smiles coyly and calls her mi amor.  

I drift in and out of memory, nothing but boxes of books packed in an old car,
how young we were, with nothing to lose.

I remember the bend outside Rock Creek, my first sight of

the Sapphires, the swift moving creek.