Collect for March

Feral clouds spit        snow into wind.

…

On the massage table        from among the sinews of my neck        my mother rises
tiny        fragile        face slack        eyes adrift        gray hair flat and waxy.

…

The young hairdresser and I        on either side of her        hoist her from her wheelchair
execute        a synchronized three-person turn        lift her        almost nothing
into the only chair        of the single-sink salon.        She sits there askew        silent.
Weeks earlier        he flirted with her        swept her silver hair        into a Marilyn.
She smiled        answered        in the rhythms of language.        Anyone who knew her
could tell        she was flirting back.

…

I keep dreaming        poems about my mother        can’t tell which of us won’t
let the other go.

…

One summer        a copperhead appears beside the front step        coiled beneath a pot
of pink impatiens.        Now pages fill:        That the copperhead coils beneath the pink
impatiens        over and over.        The next line never comes.

…

My first day of school        I cry so long        the teacher comes        kneels beside me
tells me        my mother is coming to collect me.        Convulsing in my belly        slows
to ragged breathing.        A miracle:        She heard me crying!        She’s coming!
When she walks in        she shows the teacher her smiling face.        To me        she
flashes
the face of ice.

…

I will never get warm.

…

Copperheads hibernate        November to February        March now        Imagine
copperheads
fully awake in their dens        waiting        for this frigid wind to stop.