LARGE TALK

On hearing of my death, my mother will finally

be able to tell her cronies, guess what? 

she has finally accomplished something,

not anything unusual or stellar, not something with

those marvelous talents or even infuriating hair, but

at least something entailing a change of circumstance.

Why, I can virtually hear the breathless voice on the

phone or in person, see the proud moist eyes,

sense the titllation that her firstborn is now material

of which conversation can be made.

It's been a long time since she could answer those

knotty questions: what of the composing? the writing?

Where is she now? The CEO of this, Editor of that?

knowing the flat tone in which she relays that, basically,

I have reproduced, leaving off the part regarding all the miscarriages

how difficult and courageous it was managing to birth two babies

and leaving off the two-decade illness that made me head guru of nada.

Alas, her hopes were high as heaven, and though anyone

(and everyone) can (and does) manage to die, this

will still be a phenomenon, occurring at such a young age,

definitely an accomplishment worthy of discussion.

The burden of aborted hopes will have fallen away, and

as the grubs savor my impotent flesh she will hang up

the phone or usher out the friend, turn and put on a pot

of fresh coffee, black and steamy as the Kentucky night

when first we met.  

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008