Patricia is my friend, so I'm even more connected to her poetry. I can hear her lovely voice in my head, like honey and dark chocolate.
The Sound of a Mother Scolding her Grown Daughter
Tonight the wind rises on Orcas Island, snapping lines
against masts where sailboats clatter at the docks,
and roosters crow at odd hours in voices pitched
too high, where the brightly colored mushrooms of tents
sprout among trees and blooming goatsbeard
in Moran State Park, where toads hop through the parking lot
and scare away the deer. I haven't felt this vulnerable
in years, pierced again by her sharp tongue, and tonight
I'm driving away. The color of water as it evaporates
on the highway, rising up as lost souls must, ethereal,
tendriled, is a veil I drive through at fifty-five anadnow,
ghostly enough myself in my gray hooded sweatshirt,
jeans, I stop along the road where I pretend to be reading
a map--but I'm hunched over, trying to stop my hands
from shaking, doing what I can to wash the taste
of her words from my mouth.
What lovely imagery, and how well the poem captures that shaky feeling only a mother's disapproval can can evoke.
No comments:
Post a Comment