Tuesday, November 02, 2004

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.


Anonymous said...

i adore this poem.


Christine said...

Thank you, Anon.