Decades

I am nine months

Mama tapes a pink ribbon

To my bald head

Somebody called me a boy.

I am nine.

Will the time ever come

For me to look the way Mama does

In her black tank swimsuit?

I am nineteen.

Mother is antediluvian,

Getting apoplectic over F-bombs.

How else does one inject feeling

Into poetry?

I am twenty-nine,

A mother of two.  My children are perfect,

Beautiful, smart, lively.

Why does Grandma think they need

More discipline and more chores?

I am thirty-nine,

The divorce pierces my heart.

Only Mama lets me cry,

Saying of course I’ll be all right.

I am forty-nine, and my mother is dying,

The child in me wails in need of her.

How can life go on without Mama here?

I mourn, and the pain does not stop.

I am fifty-nine, and the world is awakening,

Books, the lakeside life, grandchildren at play,

Writing is my joy, time compresses

I share this peace with Mama.