Lines

She said she had seen me in church

clear as day, dressed in my best suit,

and she was sure it was a sign

I would be coming back soon,

sitting next to her in the pew again.

So I said, “No, mom, that vision

is more about you than me,” and she,

after a quiet minute picking at her sleeve,

dispassionately, like this was a blind date

gone wrong, “Then I guess we have

nothing more to talk about.”

So there it is.  That’s the line

you always wonder about, the one

that begins to fray as soon as the DNA

has played itself out, the real crack

that ends up breaking her back. 

But what had we ever had to talk about,

really?  She didn’t get Narnia or Macbeth

or divorce, and I was mystified by Mormons

and Reader’s Digest and the little smile on her face

all the way through Cops.

For another ten years I would praise

her Christmas hams and cherry tortes

and she would try to set me up

with the nice receptionist at her doctor’s office,

and though we didn’t say it—would never speak

of it again—both of us knew

something had broken.  It would show up

in her eyes, occasionally, then more and more

until some Sunday visit, sitting next to her

by the dayroom window, it becomes clear that look

will never leave—the one that says you could be,

you are, any stranger off any street—and that now,

young man, one warm cup of Postum

and the TV Guide will entirely suffice.

(from Pebble Lake Review, 2006)