Ageless Pewter

1.

I look in the mirror and it’s you, my mother,

            staring back at me. The same way we hold our mouths, maybe,

                        or the way my hair frames. A pressing,

willingness (though tired). Tiny joys hypnotized, patiently waiting

            I see it when I’m not looking straight on but in a quick glance 

                       as I wash my hands of night's duller             

dreams. These identical eyes like a collection of tiny spoons

            from different states – Texas, Oklahoma, Illinois.

                        Ageless pewter.

2.

It’s Kentucky Derby weekend and my husband says I’m the only person

             he’s ever known that followed the jockeyed ponies. I think 

                        immediately of my mother, of the birth of her son, 

my brother, and that my father was away at that muddy,
             early May race, not at the hospital walking in the arrival 

                         of his first boy (named after him)

and how, perhaps, this was a turning time for her, his wife, most likely. 

             When she may have really begun to look at herself, 

                       surveyed her young and able self, 

pressing morning’s water to her face and recognized,

              touching her frosted hair, grace and generosity.

                       No tears here. Mouth drawn in. Coral lipstick

                        

to match her nails. Fingers to dial a phone

              to take her home. Two daughters,

                        one son.

  

3.

You painted this striated landscape for me. Mother. The white place,

            discarded shells; soft coal black steppes like winter coats;

                        heating your first solo home. 

Red, the tireless rust.

             Yellow for return to potent New Mexico sun.

                         I see myself reflected, up to my knees in mud.

Feel my sleepy morning rising, banked by the warmth of

              days you woke us, fed us, walked us down the halls

                            toward heart and art and unconditional tolerance,

            

undaunted, you,

               your busied hands holding a pen

                             Only the slightest white shoots framing the face 

that shows its youth when

we, 

            both of us,        smile back.