AUBADE
Aubade
just as pink seeps
into a pre-dawn sky
my mother wakes me, asks me
to change, change her right
in the living room, no
one else awake, the sky
dropping its glimmer on-
to the hundreds of gray
tongues of daylight
and I lift her from her recliner:
her last flight deck, the very fabric
of our eventual goodbye,
kneel to slip away all her old-
lady protections: panties worn
through from washings,
a diaper underneath (both
a bit damp), her hand
on my head, then not
steady on her feet, I
lower her, bare butted,
onto the seat of her walker. Oh no!
Oh God!, she cries, I’m leaking,
hand over eyes, yes true
small rivers slipping, rivulets
on her cheeks, between her thighs,
puddle of sadness steeped, one
last shame of the many female
shames gathered over a lifetime,
her head a folded star, her hair
matted white, light on her bald
spot in the back, that one blemish
always, her beauty, her scent--dupion
silk and velvet, dressed to go out
for the evening, filling our dark
bedroom where we three girls
in bed where the nanny has tucked
us to kiss us— this one last goodbye,
her wet face and thighs to dry,
pat with powder, a fresh diaper, then
to bend, scrub the carpet, to clean,
this time, what slips and slips
and slips away.
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This poem first appeared in Night Heron Barks and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize