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Even After 9 Years
by  Lyn Lifshin

the cards and stories I look
away from singe. Mother's
Day. In one neighborhood,
every one wore carnations
this day, red or pink if your
mother was living, white
if you were alone. I still
wear her sox, as if to keep
her reminding me what to
lock and what to open.
Each tv station reels with
news of united mothers and
children after shootings,
tornados, exportations,
their fingers holding on
like someone clawing rock
when they lose their footing,
faces buried in skin and hair
so it's hard to tell where
one stops and the other starts,
Siamese twins in the night.
If my mother had held me
under a bridge during a
tornado, she couldn't have
let go, let the wind fling her
from me or seen me swept
in the air to a tree where a
rescuer could find me. Our
bodies would have been so
glued together only a force
that could kill us both
would separate us

Lyn Lifshin Bio

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