Old News
My mother was a high woman.
She sat up tall in bed,
pillows piled behind her back.
Some days she'd fall
if the sheets weren't pulled tight,
and we didn't place her right
in the middle of the pillows so
the hollow would hold her bones.
But she was tall.
And she'd say:
Bring me old news
and spread it out;
bring me potatoes, the knife,
an onion, a few carrots.
And right there in her pillows
she'd carve up the stew
order it set on the stove
steaming.
Sometimes, at night, even now,
I feel something press
down the edge of my bed,
next to my chest.
I tell myself:
hold still. Don't
breathe.
I keep my eyes shut;
feel the bed sink down.
I cross my arms over my chest.
That high woman holds me. |