Mother's Ilk

Your appearance in the courtyard 

is a pale reflection 

of season's past 

when you illuminated the morning glories 
with your rapturous charm,
and old men at the chess board 

arose in chorus to praise 

your brightly colored ensembles.

Now, some hostile years 

have marched over your allure, 

scarring a landscape

with husband's infidelities,

an ectopic pregnancy, 

Lyme disease,

a breast cancer scare.
  
The hand-woven sweater 

which seasons ago 
adorned a vibrant figure 
struggles to obscure 

a shy, diminished form.
  
Your daughters flutter beside you, 

nimble as a fireflies.

The promise of the day 

is alight in their eyes.

You smile when their eyes meet yours, 

but not often besides.
  
Your husband pulls the water hose 

to his pickup truck, 
eyeing the buxom neighbor 

across the way.  

You were once a splendid bride, 
full of laughter 

and unbounded esteem.  

When we danced on your wedding day

you declared 

you never knew such euphoria.

"He's The One," you said,

and I spied in your lavender-painted eyes

the hypnotic state that bends lovers

toward forever promises.

I blessed you.

I blessed your marriage,

because there is only 

       this

       moment 
before the curtain drops.  

Your daughters wave hello, 
exalted in their matching 

floral-print dresses.

You conceal 

your fractured spirit from them;

yet, when they are old enough 

for shopping malls, 

push-up bras, 

and boy's lusty stares,

when they learn of father's affairs,

will mother's soured milk

already be theirs?

**First published in Suspended Magazine