05-12-2014, 07:55 AM
Mother was afraid
she might go to hell;
never a real believer,
she faced mornings
like she faced father,
with sharp pins in her hair.
Sleep spoke a language
she refused to believe;
often awake in the middle
of the night, a blind cry
away from morning,
thinking about her old dishes,
her worn towels, shoes
she wanted but could not afford —
she dreamed a moving van
would save her; other nights
she dreamed her children’s faces
stared down at her from great heights.
she might go to hell;
never a real believer,
she faced mornings
like she faced father,
with sharp pins in her hair.
Sleep spoke a language
she refused to believe;
often awake in the middle
of the night, a blind cry
away from morning,
thinking about her old dishes,
her worn towels, shoes
she wanted but could not afford —
she dreamed a moving van
would save her; other nights
she dreamed her children’s faces
stared down at her from great heights.