My mother who doesn’t like to be
seen, who never, she claims,
looks good in a photo, wanted
us to see her framed
in the window in New York
pretending to be Paris.
Even when she did it, walked
into the French bakery, sat down
at the table in front
of the big open window
with the big open shutters
and asked us to stay
outside, take her picture
from the street, sitting there
with French music, French
vases, pastries as rich
and delicious as Paris,
we were surprised.
I thought one day she’ll be gone,
and I’ll think of when she
and my sister visited me,
and we shopped and didn’t
argue and she asked us
to look at her, remember her
this way against our sad
history, our sad futures, everything
our lives will become without
her, because of her, after her.