And some new ones.
This is called the Old Crone.
Black bandana hides the hair, long I'm sure, and gray.
She's slightly bent.
Tongue sharper than her eyes, and they miss nothing.
A scold, who mutters her days away inside me.
Asks why I don't bake fresh bread.
Bury egg shells and orange rind for compost.
Stir great pots of soup seasoned with tender herbs
from my garden.
Wash windows until they disappear.
Tend the children's coughs with cups of hot Yerba Buena
at night.
Lock all doors and windows like a great black hen,
fluff my layers and doze inside.
Inside.
Once her voice was loud.
Away and alone, away and alone, she'd
mutter as I boarded plane after plane.
Rocked on foreign subways by myself.
Unwanted, unwanted, she chanted, the first time
I said table for one.
Words bitter as a spoiled olive splitting in my mouth.
Oh, she was stubborn.
Nagged me day and night.
But she grew weary.
Began dozing more and more, which let me study her at rest.
See how small she was.
I started lulling her with stories of birds
I'd seen in Pakistan and Cuba.
Started reading her my poems which on a good day,
made her smile.