Just as I despair, you appear
taking matters in hand. I fluster in from Boston but you
have pawned your cap, for even her ice cream
is of a particular flavor and from her list of delicacies.
And there in the kitchen, an artistically strewn clutter
the perfect readings lying on the table
by her bedside, all that matters right there
where she is flowing down.
Yet still, her head nods
as she steps on brambles in dreams, and you pluck blackberries
offering them to her, and roses from fierce thorns
as we draw curtains of delicate German lace.
The world must wait.
My fear keeps on rising but you
are a master composer, a wielder of notes and you
know how to politely scat with weight on just the right tones,
skimming cream from little stars.
And just as when you compose at piano, your feet
caressing floorboards in alternation with pedals
notes flitting competently across staves –
Just that way, you know how to do this: how to
orchestrate mother’s rite of passage as she sets off
for another world, her spirit eyes unable to speak a word
Oh, let me rave.
© 2011 Christine Tsen. All Rights Reserved.
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