faces are not faces any more
but parts of the room
to her–a roomscape
with no sun ever setting
& the days uncharted
by anything but the brightness
of this fluorescent & linoleum reality
of a waiting room
overlooking a courtyard
where I can’t smoke
& walking is difficult
on bricks old & brittle
with winter
& her, thin as the twigs
exposed outside, barely sipping
the chocolate milkshake we brought
from the drivethrough
because even when starving herself absent
she would not refuse ice cream
I feed the woman
who fed me
though she does not remember
telling me
eat more than one pea
at a time, and please, please
stop slipping your macaroni
one piece at a time
over your fork tines. I can’t
watch you eat
yes, and I can’t threaten
to keep her meal for hours
melting
the way she did liver
& eggplant with me
so I tease, make her smile
for that 1 more taste
& she tells me
You’re not very good looking
when I pout
& she’s right
that day I wasn’t–
week 2 of sleeplessness waiting
for her to breathe out
that 1 last particle of self
& float into awareness
of who she was
again & how
my tired eyes
belonged to my father
whom she loved
& loved the echoes of him
in my face, when she
remembered echoes,
but now I embody me
a stranger she calls mother
because she sees me mother
my children
& her
every time we meet
she has forgotten, too
how she used to say
I was beautiful
Interesting Dverse prompt today using first-person narrative–infusing theater into poetry
Susan Daniels Poetry 