Friday, February 25, 2011

The Widow's Ghost Visits Her Daughter

You've moved out.
Tell yourself this time you really mean it.
Recall how I used to twist
my marriage band around my finger.  
Or maybe it's nothing like that at all.

You're nine months and feel a contraction, 
make the mistake of calling my old number.
At the next Stop sign, you grab something 
that sticks to your finger like batter to chicken
when you moan, Oh.

Or maybe this week you're driving the kids to their soccer game.
You're lost,  turn on the GPS. 
November butting up against the holidays. You remember
the macaroni and cheese our family ate one year 
and how you still can't get yours to taste like mine.

Which is when I come in,
a visit from my permanent vacation spa
where sparrows dip into the jar
of morning, noon, and night.

Open my mouth to tell you I'm here,
run my voice across your thick hair.
Now it's my turn to miss you.
We sit quiet together.

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