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She might be my mother,
but I don't owe her.
She might be my sister;
we never got along.
I don't want her
body in my car.
She'll be hungry. She'll
smell like abandonment--
urine, blood, or the mustiness
of rain on earth.
In those dark glasses, I can't
see her eyes,
and her arms are waving like
crazy branches.
What kind of woman would
kneel beside the freeway
but a lunatic or a
whore just waiting
for men to approach
in those big black trucks that
carry women away.
§ § §
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Tonight, I am an old woman
sitting prettily, drinking tea.
A book of poetry is
parted on my lap.
Sometimes the Manx
kneads my skin,
then flees out
his little door.
I have opened my windows,
hoping for the haunting
smell of lilies
on the wind.
But it is autumn,
it is dark,
and the moon,
I feel her
jungle of arms.
She is wrapping
around this house,
pulsing light through crevices.
I want to slip out
of my blue housedress,
and into my young,
beautiful body.
§ § §
Celia Homesley lives along the wild Northern California coastline in the small town of Arcata, one of America’s last liberal bastions. Her publication credits include Poetry East, The Bloomsbury Review, Fourteen Hills: The SFSU Review, Luna, and others. She was a Poets & Writers Artist-In-Residence in 1998.
These pieces were first published in
INK
POT #3 - 2004, a literary journal.
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