TO MOTHER

         I

When I visited you 
In this morning's
Dream, You lived

In an elegant
Old high-rise
High atop a steep, 
Elliptical hill.

The sides
Of the hill itself
Were built up
With decorative

Walls and terraces,
All the way down,

And below the terrace
At the foot of the hill
Yawned a great precipice,

And below that, the city.
It was a great, vast view

Of a city like St. Louis
Only greater, with the green
Dome of the New Cathedral

And lots of red-roofed,
Florentine-style public 
Buildings, and thousands
Of residences that looked
Colorful and interesting.

High up in the high-rise
Your graceful apartment
Adjoined a little boutique
That you ran.

          II

Ah, Mother,
My first years
I scarcely remember you,

And after that you
Were a lion
Who stalked me
And slayed me,

And then for years
You wore those tight
Flower-print pants
And slapped my face
Hard, whenever I
Talked back to you.

Now, you command
A cultured city 
Like a queen,

At least in the geography
Of my subconscious.

        III

While most preoccupied
With my own change,

I've watched you change.

When I was ten,
For reasons I assume
Were mainly financial,

You got a part-time
Librarian's job
At the School of Art
And Architecture.

I went there with you
On Saturdays, sometimes.
You showed me how
To recognize
A Renoir or Monet.

It was a quiet place,
A classic building
On a campus
Brushed with trees.


In twenty years
You had become
Head librarian
Of the busy
Clayton Library,

In that suburb
Of glass and steel,

Without even
A Library Science
Degree, and a skillful

Hostess to sophisticated
Businessmen and cultured 
Ladies. Now, retired,

When you had us
To lunch on our 
Visit last month,

You'd set our fork and knife
Above our plates
In an inverted "V",

And stabbed the spoon into
Each little bowl of sorbet
So it stood up like
A telephone pole
On a Kansas plain all
Covered in orange snow.

You're a Mondrian,
A Kandinsky
Of the luncheon table.

Perhaps the abstract drapes
Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
That you hung in our 
Living room when I was growing up
Made you a modern artist.

Or maybe it's 
Just as you say,
Your daily Exercise
That keeps your brain
And body fit.

         III

And in my dream
All was harmonious
Between us, or at least,

Communication flowed,
Until I mentioned GOD.

And you said angrily, "Why 
Bring GOD into everything?"

Mother, don't you 
Know, I see GOD 
When I look at you!






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Recent Poems (2003-4)

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