Mother by the Sea

In all photographs,
she seems to almost float
uncared for, uncombed
an afterthought
following all her days
when she must roll like a wave
over and over again
rushing over to serve
unfurling endless utensils, blankets, tissues
in the middle of nowhere.

Her hands tremble and awkwardly retreat
from ornaments
smiling furtively, she quickly looks away
her mouth shaping a narrative about
wanting things but letting them go.

I tell her endlessly
of the women, glorious women
with folds of flesh like hers
in cropped tops and biker shorts,
gleaming in the Victorian sun.

But not for her
“too late for that,” she says.

Out by the sea,
she is unafraid
walking to the stonewall
where an old battered book has been laid out,
its pages ruffling ceaselessly in the wind—
“read and unloved”
or “maybe put out in the sun to dry”—
she can’t decide but takes it into her fold
and brings it home.

July 13 2022