i canıt show my mother my new book
LYN LIFSHIN
my nine year
in the making
new baby when
I did Ariadneıs
Thread my mother
read the manuscript
with me in the
only cool green and
fern covered room
downstairs where
I lay for hours
with apricot sours
for pain, my back
throbbing. When
it came out she was
as happy as if it
was a child, except
for the four letter
words sheıd have
crossed out, sure
sometimes Iıd meet
a man I wanted and
heıd be shocked
at what I did as
glazed trees were
wild and as glistening
these confidences of
others must have
been spread on the
bed in ³her² room in
my house but I did
not count on her
approval as much am
not even sure what
she read. I canıt
show her the book
with the first piece
about the mother dying
preparations for the
grave with my
mother, now, rarely
getting dressed or
moving a few yards
from her bed. Only a
few years ago sheıd
ferret out poems
stuck in or under
boxes until she
could snarl at me,
was that what I
really felt?² Now
she doesnıt come
upstairs, sleeps
between pain pills,
eats so little. Even
if this book was a
baby she might
ask its name,
never want to
hold it
lyn lifshin
