17june2

my mother is bent low against the counter,

her face a familiar rictus of fear:

lips pressed together, a deep line in her forehead,

one hand clutching the wall as the other holds the phone;

it is the same expression on her face as she peers through my door,

she examines my face, searching for the trigger;

has she lost me, am i so far gone --

and i lean forward, instinctively,

my book slips off my lap, my eyes on its cover,

listening for the next catastrophe:

she says, "honey," into the phone,

chewing on her lip, she says,

"have you fed the cat," she says,

her lips invisible, "did you,

his food, have you --"

brief relaxation, she turns to me:

it's ok, the cat has been fed,

and you are ok: the crisis is over.

her slight swaying smile,

still searching my face,

the cat has been fed --

the rictus, the fear --

and you are not here,

not here, not here.