While we are having breakfast
on the screened-in porch, waffles
with blueberries, my mother wrinkles
into tears over nothing, some
remembrance. She is always
giving in. The outside world is
wrung out, too, exhausted
with last night’s rain, darkened
and earthly. On the black tree trunk,
a nuthatch pitches itself
upside down and sideways,
pecking wildly for bugs
under the bark. A chickadee
is a quick breath, lifting
off a limb. I want
to take my mother’s hands,
but they are almost transparent,
terrible on the table.
Her body hunkers like a vase,
accumulating sorrows. It is
a Chinese vase, slender
at the neck, glazed
on the inside. In my mouth
are scrambled eggs
I have to eat or never get up
again. I sit through adolescence,
adulthood, safely
into menopause. The eggs soften
in my mouth, harden on
my plate, yellow ruffles.
Blue flowered oilcloth clings
to the table. My mother’s hands
keep on fluttering
I pass her a waffle, butter,
a jug of pure
maple syrup, too heavy to pour.
I line up these items
in front of her. Hope
tries to get out of my chest.
It sounds like my heart, but it’s
furious, hungry, light as a bird.