Barbra, My Mother and Me
A poem
The house still. Citrus and Lysol
in the air from a day spent cleaning
cabinets and floors. Candles
flickering in newly shined windows.
A pause on the CD player, then
her voice. Accompanied by
a melody on black and white keys.
And the swift, synchronized
massaging of violin strings.
My mom beside me, teacup in hand,
eyes closed. She sways, humming.
I do the same.
Velvet with modest sequence, I imagine
her. Tall. Poised with a gentle smile.
Shoulders back, gaze ahead. Skinny.
Legs like branches of a birch.
Arms dangling in similar fashion.
A nose that sticks out too far.
“We could fix that,” they said.
But she wouldn’t let them.
Like a lioness admiring her pride
she moves across the stage.
Having earned her place there
as one of the first to show how
wrong they were to underestimate
what a woman could do.
