Proofing the Generations

In memory of my mother, gone and ungone.

In the back of the pantry, behind the oatmeal,
to the right of the dried milk and cans of pencil stubs,
on a willow-ware plate,
my mother lives
beneath a blue glass bowl.

I watch her brew beneath the glass and wait
for her to storm the surface with her flesh,
impress against its imperfections, cracks
and chips. She’ll crawl into arms of spider galaxies
to grout her sky with great clouds of self.
She will rise
until the horizon breathes to her rhyme,
balanced like a babe on her white hip.

My fingers sink hollows that do not heal
into her round skin.
Dinner’s at eight.
The table is set,
butter knives sharpened for this occasion,
heavy with need, thick with expectation.

But she rises still, breeding beyond her promise,
rebellious as a heartbeat,
sticking to the roof of my soul,
beyond the prying of my words.

-Kitty Yanson