My mother's third call on a day of sleet and December falling

As if the whiteness was

gauze wrapped over the

mouth of someone dying

and she had to slash it

with the last word or

Monday was a blank

sheet of paper only my

words would cling to.

My mother, who lugged

suitcases with me in the

78 blizzard when subways

broke in Brooklyn says

the wind crossing the

street wouldn't let

her breathe. I'm stand

ing with my hair dripping,

turning the quilt a darker

blue the water boiling

downstairs, thinking how

long it's been since I've

gone to visit her or

haven't old her I had

to rush but just let the

words between us wrap

us like the navy afghan

on the velvet couch with

the stain where the grey

cat peed and just drifted

in the closeness linked

as we once were as if

we always would be

Copyright Frontiers Publishing, Inc. 1995
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