WEBVTT

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Can you hear me by the way
because I have the feeling

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I've been too far from the mic?

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The mics have to get
together now and again.

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This thing's going to work.

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The next poem is called Home.

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And it's for my mother
on her 79th birthday

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and it actually grew out of a
telephone call to her New York

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and it begins with
something she said.

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Home.

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I'm trying to see my hands.

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Mom's voice long distance
blurs but won't break.

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I slip in a compliment
then she go on.

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Don't let your words
run away with you.

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The flash of her
old authority sighed

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stroking in the
pool at watermill,

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the scissor kick, the bubbles
on her white bathing cap.

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No way I can jump back six
years old with my hands

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out letting her pull me.

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To forget myself,
the old resentments

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dropped, wet bathing
suits on the lawn.

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Breakfasts are pink wicker
tray with the bone china,

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two pillows of shredded wheat
that rose like a 12 year old's

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doubts under the heavy cream.

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Her teeth and mine practicing
to break them down.

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The tension rooted there.

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Tonight when he helps
the nurse put her to bed,

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one of her grandsons will rub
her legs with which hairs on,

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the flame inside
beginning to dance,

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both knees ruddy like
flowers the blood

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we share pointing her
home remembering for us.

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