My mother, she
lives carefully;
sculpting all the while.
Her castle,
her fortress,
her Taj Mahal,
her life--
is shaped, brick by brick,
most of it around the fountains
of my father's desires.

My mother, she
is cursed
with eagle eyes
and a dreamer's mind.
She sees, clear and true,
and she sits,
and thinks,
and waits,
and that is it.
Her hands, thin and veined
do little
but rest on her husband's hair,
offering something like supplication,
and an unnecessary apology.

My mother, she
is always entertaining.
Sometimes guests,
sometimes me,
sometimes strangers,
but mostly fantasy.
One time,
every time,
I watched her eyes close
and wondered
what pictures were projected.
What portrait was painted
on the backs of her lids.
I don't presume to think
they were of my father, no;
and I know better than to think
that she dreams of me.

My mother, she
lives,
but only just.
Every touch
and every dream
is like scotch tape
in the place of a suture,
a piece of candy
for the pain of a hemorrhage.
Miserable
laughable
and woefully inadequate.