Mother

I always picture you the way you'd look
at my old high school.

You are painfully awkward
with your tawny yellow hair in a pile at your shoulders.

You; haughty eyes and dirty feet
You; always at war with yourself.

Child of the rolling pin and apron,
hanging on the lip of the sixties
like an acid tablet.

Child and your bohemian dance
your sisters and their makeup
your daddy and his motorcycle

Child, anything more than rose-colored
is too serious
 

There is enough of me there to turn away.