Lullaby Mother
My mother hangs out wash in mountain
air.
A believer in wind, she nods to the
snapping clothes
white shirts, polka-dot dress, printed
napkins
pajamas purged of infant milk.
Now I live present and past together
make paper hats out of headlines
scratch hopscotch on sidewalks
hear “sticks and stones” through drift
of time.
She neatly slices hot dog and bun
pulls a cake from the oven
clasps my cold hands in her warmth
laughs when I jump away like a frog
catches me, under the faucet scrubs back
my face.
She knows how to do things, has the sum
of all details
more than her ten fingers and toes.
I sing to my children
lullabies behind her voice.
Jill
Gabriel is a walker in the Hudson Valley
and a catboat sailor on Cape Cod. Her
poetry has most recently appeared in New
Verse News, Time of Singing, Apple
Valley Review, Ancient Heart and in
Inside Cape Cod. |
