In Another Room

by Marie Gray Wise

In the living room, my mother groans,
staring at a small Blessed Mother statue,
turning her head from side to side —
an equilibrium exercise —
all counterpoised with a description of pain
and a lament twice as long.

In the kitchen, I scrub the counter harder
tell myself to take her seriously
because she is old.
But I treat her complaint
like an old recording — no,
like an echo —
of the sobs that oozed
from beneath the bedroom door
when my baby brother died.

My ears are full of tears
shed thirty years ago.
Why won’t she be quiet
behind that door?
Why won’t she wipe her eyes
and ask about me?