~ If a violin string could ache, I would be that string.
Nabokov
Mother whirls as we dance in our pink-
flowered jammies waltzing to a ¾ beat
across the living room. The violinist
wears a white dress, her black hair wild
with moonlight that willows her long
arms—her eyes speak of edges
with no words on her tongue, only music,
only summer on skin, her glorious sound
naming a kind of shelter, or a palpable madness—
but O how she handles that bow,
the glide across catgut; her notes honeysuckle
the evening’s clouds, the shadows soften
into something milky & fine. Mother
must be hungry, the two of us cutting the rug,
our flannel jammies wet with our sweat—
mother glistens, throws back her head,
her hair reddish brown again, her skin
so youthful even the distant stars
want to begin anew, so I ¾ time my way
to the kitchen humming, flip an omelet
with butter, mushrooms & parsley. Only,
when I plate the eggs, I remember mother
has been dead these six years. I juice three oranges—
the mother, the body, & the memory.
I sip the juice and eat alone, why I awoke
in the first place—I had felt the absence
of her body’s press, only liminal lines
where the quiet light reminds me
of the night mother & I watched old movies,
the television’s sheen caressing our foreheads.
At midnight, she cradled my arm, said,
This is nice, you & me here, together.
