I went because that
is what
good mother’s do.
I rarely
if ever
identify as a
“good” mother
but I do
want to read as one
to those other mothers
that decorate your hallways
I dressed more seriously
than normal
I sat on the edge
of your bed
and zipped up my serious
shoes
I even called your father
I asked if he was coming
(he was)
I even offered to pick him up
“Is this what love is,
to care about appearances
so aggressively?”
I asked him
(he didn’t respond)
we sit together
in those serious
wooden chairs
“because we love you”
we were surrounded
by serious people
I felt claustrophobic
like foreigners
nesting in over-ripe
county
elevators
we argued about
christmas presents
he talked about movies
“I wish I could take you to one”
(I didn’t respond)
we agree to disagree
you walked on to a
tiny stage
a giant heart
your backdrop
a star
your spotlight
you wore a crooked smile
and shy eyes
like gold plated halos
you opened your mouth
and sang with
accuracy and
precision
it took me by
surprise
I looked at you
I saw you
I felt the
overwhelming urge
to apologize
to beg forgiveness
to profess my love
to try again
do we only
appreciate in retrospect?
if there really is
a curse on man
then
truly
this
must
be
it.