Page 22 - Contrast1981Springv24
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COVERINGS
As her daughters doze through old
movies in flannel gowns,
my mother polishes her white
shoes (like ours long ago)
and bandages her legs in gauzy
stockings. While we sleep
she turns a wheezing skeleton
in its bed, fingers
the fitful pulse.
All day we have to sneak in socks,
snatch the clanging phone from its cradle.
In faded apron my father
hands out cornflakes, vitamins,
squirts a turkey as he talks.
Gliding from shade-dim room
in the drowsy afternoon
she blinks in her blue robe and curses
the empty coffeepot. Once,
enshrouded by the third dark load,
I almost snapped back
Mary Ellen Bellanca
20
