For My Mother, Cooking
She's the salt lady
salt on the spinach salad,
salt on the scrambled eggs,
salt with the rocky road
ice cream, salt under
the beds, salt at the window
sills keeps us from escape.
Sundays to teach us she hides
the water, screws the pipes
shut, we stink and
toilets overflow with shit
and salty cabbage, we cry
silently, no tears, thirst
draws closed our throats
like the drawstring of a
silk purse, each huddled
over our shoes in the closets,
moaning and rocking, counting
the minutes to Monday, fiddling
with laces as our eyes burn, oh
mama, we are dry, we are dry
it's to teach us,
she says,
to appreciate.
2 comments:
i adore this poem.
http://home.comcast.net/~mywordsarebetter/index.html
Thank you, Anon.
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