mother’s young lips –
not yet saddened by years
that hang like overbearing peaches
on branches that have sagged
under the weight of support –
pursed, paused between words,
ready for the red lip-shtik;
I’m five, stand behind, watch
her watching herself
through the looking glass on a dressing table
years later I painted white.
Behind us
dad’s impatient voice
like time’s working of the dresser’s veneer
demanded in a tone
that neither of us ever denied
for too long; our ability
to time the length defined us.
No comments:
Post a Comment