THERE WERE ALWAYS STARS
Lyn Lifshin
at night, loud,
exploding the
closeness of wrinkled silk.
I remember the
smell of my
mother's hair
holding me
curled into her
coolness of
marble and the
hard lines
of a chair
shading us, the
wood becoming
a tree again.
Blue of sky.
Trees in the
bottom of a
tea cup. Even
when the one
wall was ash
mother scrubbed
and kept lace
squares on half
the couch, lit
candles. One Friday
bed posts flared
wilder than wax
in silver. It was
all we knew, blue
berry jam blue
veins breaking, the
blue of violets.
Nana's blue sweater
one arm sorter,
unraveling.
Shapes dissolve
like margarine
high noon on the
Sahara. Blue the last
color. David's eyes as
the train door shut.
Blue tattoo, blue
flame I'd only
touch once. Every
thing transformed the
way a scalp stuns,
shaved of hair
