Can you hear me by the way because I have the feeling
I've been too far from the mic?
The mics have to get together now and again.
This thing's going to work.
The next poem is called Home.
And it's for my mother on her 79th birthday
and it actually grew out of a telephone call to her New York
and it begins with something she said.
Home.
I'm trying to see my hands.
Mom's voice long distance blurs but won't break.
I slip in a compliment then she go on.
Don't let your words run away with you.
The flash of her old authority sighed
stroking in the pool at watermill,
the scissor kick, the bubbles on her white bathing cap.
No way I can jump back six years old with my hands
out letting her pull me.
To forget myself, the old resentments
dropped, wet bathing suits on the lawn.
Breakfasts are pink wicker tray with the bone china,
two pillows of shredded wheat that rose like a 12 year old's
doubts under the heavy cream.
Her teeth and mine practicing to break them down.
The tension rooted there.
Tonight when he helps the nurse put her to bed,
one of her grandsons will rub her legs with which hairs on,
the flame inside beginning to dance,
both knees ruddy like flowers the blood
we share pointing her home remembering for us.