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 you:

        husband's infidelities,

        an ectopic pregnancy, 

        losing a steady job,

        a breast cancer scare.
  
The hand-woven sweater, 

which seasons ago adorned a vibrant figure, 
now hangs loose

over a 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, 
unflinching beneath the veil.  

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.

But 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