Poem 30

I'm not entirely satisfied with this poem. I tried to go for a certain repetition in the first few stanzas, but then the poem needed to go somewhere else. I'll probably change it later this week if a good idea pops into my head.

This is probably the only poem I've written about my mom.

For My Mother

With a used Grand Prix
and the gas to drive 300 miles,
I left a town sopping with your name.

A house content
to settle into the earth
and the trees fringing its walls
eager to grow and shade the windows:
this too I forgot.

With a whole set of clothes
and the last shoes you bought me,
my lips still buzzed with your name.

A street satisfied
with its length and curves
to form potholes in winter
and cracks in its driveways-
there are others like it.

I know my feet will wipe on other mats
and I’ll walk up flights of stairs
to sit and ask questions
about school days.
I’ll eat at tables with Sunday-school
centerpieces made from gourds.
I’ll find dirty prints on my windows,
as if I put them there with small,
borrowed fingers.

I learned your frown and scold,
your laugh and comfort.
Your hands are not the only ones,
but who else has hands
with so many of my scars?