Midder…
because at two
I couldn’t say “Aunt Mildred”—
and that was all
she wrote. From
forty-eight to tombstone,
the name stuck
to this second
mama like clean to her kitchen
floors. And
the ho-cakes
she could make!—as thin
and lacy
as doilies. When
she held me, I all but
nursed
the tits
of her babyless breasts,
this woman
who wore
brogans to tomato fields
and carried
a smile
ubiquitous as a lady’s
purse. A
woman I knew
only and ever as old,
her hair
white and wispy
as broomsedge in winter.
The last
time I saw
her, she said, “If I don’t
see you again,
I’ll see you
later”—and with every fiber
of being,
I’m crossing
the Jordan and counting
on that.
Midder…
Advertisements
Loving this poem, line by line and smiling deep as it closes but keeps on opening . . .
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. I keep telling myself that if I’ll just write the writing will surprise me too. I’m glad it opens for others as it seems to for me.
LikeLike