MOTHER/UNFRAMED
When I paint your body,
do I paint what's left behind?
No, I paint the soft light
spilling onto your last bed.
Did I irritate you when I tried to tell
you what business was like?
You bought me that suit anyway,
mahogany, thick wool weave,
snappy padded shoulders
and the long, slim skirt with a slit peeking out from a thick fold.
When I paint your body,
What am I fed?
Your estate's
numbers and forms
at my desk where I look
into the picture frames I took from your room:
photographs of babies, boys, young men --
my two sons growing.
I never put out pictures of my own.
When I paint the soft light
spilling on your bed...
You smelled of romance,
your teeth slightly crooked
when you smiled,
your glistening mink, fur deliciously cool--
when I buried my face, it tickled.
Your high heels clicking as you left, with Dad.
When I try to paint your body,
I paint something else instead.
We both married twice.
The first time you bought me a white leather book
to record crystal goblets and Tiffany spoons.
You ordered pale notepaper, monogrammed
with my new initials from a lead plate.
We both made long lists with our cross-looped letterings
in blue ink, now tossed together
in my attic in a box.
When I paint your body,
something unlocks.