The Head Cold
gets worse during the night, so I peel
myself off my sleeping husband
for a cup of honey tea.
In the unnatural morning my mother
is with me like the absent moon.
I am a rueful shadow beside her
bed. She rises silently, moves into
the kitchen, I sit at a table that is
an eclipse. Her face a pocket,
small round hands moving in space.
She gives me tea in white ceramic
too big for me to hold, hangs far
away, gazes past me.
A distant, sideways companion,
following through a car window.
My feet swing above cold marble.
When her eyes meet mine, their light
is a dull reflection of another source.
In empty farm fields, you can see
clearly by the light of the moon.
She covers everything in the color
of polished nickel, the sound of taking,
surrounds you in her infinite negative of day.