My mother was here today to try on the
children
like garments in Bloomingdale's,
her praise stalking them for lines to flatter her,
while coins spilled from her fingers and perfume
crowded the heavy aroma of feelings.
Near the light my daughter crayons. I
concentrate
by the window where silver dollar plants
and bear grass arrange my eyes.
"Emily," I ask my daughter, "what shall I
give to a 50-year-old woman who makes
my eyes suddenly hard as diamonds?"
earrings, I am thinking.
"Mom," my daughter asks me,
"what can I draw
for a 29-year-old woman
who knows I won't do a flower or a truck?
We decide on a girl dangling from the moon.
Spreading arcs of yellow my daughter
works to make the sky larger.
Sheila Bender, Copyright 2001