by Jayne Benjulian
Would Mother be young, standing in the middle
of Knight Street talking to Frances Druck?
The hem of her yellow apron ripples.
She looks back at the quiet house, the spot
where a child’s mouth fogs a circle
on the living room window. Did she say
take care of the children, the sentence blurred
to dust, like grey on a neglected table
the caretaker blows away. Atomized
in three directions. Call her back.
Once, she appeared in the silk of memory
waiting for our lives to begin. In the moment
the heart locks, I try a key, turning;
turning a tunnel at the end of our lives.