IN THE LADIES ROOM, AFTER THE FILM
LYN LIFSHIN
I breathe, as my
mother did, “Thank God
I’m not married to
him” and plan
on salmon, his
favorite. I used
to be glad people
said I had my father’s
good nose, was tall
and thin, not
short and plump. As
my mother dwindled
her face and mine
grew closer. “Your
gestures,” a relative
said, “are so much
the same.” After
she left my house
for the final time,
I locked the screen door
as she had, got the
garbage pail she said
I needed, stopped longing
for the man she said
wasn’t worth it. I read her
notes in college English
books, slid into her
rings, blood stone
and diamond, emerald,
wear green, color I never
chose as if scared of
what could grow and
take over. I give my self
up to jade sweaters, a
maple leaf camisole and the
ivy that managed to creep
under the brick and wood,
grow up thru the downstairs
floor, staying thru winter,
moving deeper into the house
