Mother as a Little Girl
You sit there
atop an old wooden bench.
A lifetime ago.
In anklet socks, puff sleeves
and a peter pan collar,
you hold a trio of rabbits
on some distant uncle’s dusty farm --
as it sidetracked, perhaps,
from your first Holy Communion.
Shy but certain
you look straight ahead,
skeptical but happy --
what with squirming props
on your lap
and wire rimmed glasses
that made you self conscious.
(Two older brothers,
you would tell us,
beat the snot out of anyone
who dared to call you four eyes)
Your skinny lips are twisted
noncommittally, as if to say
“I don’t really want to say cheese.”
I caught myself the other day
giving a mirror the same look.
And I remembered this picture
--Dacula
2011
You sit there
atop an old wooden bench.
A lifetime ago.
In anklet socks, puff sleeves
and a peter pan collar,
you hold a trio of rabbits
on some distant uncle’s dusty farm --
as it sidetracked, perhaps,
from your first Holy Communion.
Shy but certain
you look straight ahead,
skeptical but happy --
what with squirming props
on your lap
and wire rimmed glasses
that made you self conscious.
(Two older brothers,
you would tell us,
beat the snot out of anyone
who dared to call you four eyes)
Your skinny lips are twisted
noncommittally, as if to say
“I don’t really want to say cheese.”
I caught myself the other day
giving a mirror the same look.
And I remembered this picture
of you.
--Dacula
2011
