So, there are no food specials this weekend, our friend is getting married and we will be at the bachelor’s party, doing those things. And, Richard Thompson is playing Sunday eve at the Town Ballroom, and really you should all be there, watching him rip it up for what may be the last time… but who are we to say, he might keep picking to 101. In any case, the special is, no food specials, go hug yer Mom, stare at the moon, come to Hawley’s for a drink or three, and welcome the nice weather to stay.
My Mother’s Closet
I had a fascination with your dresses — the greens, brocades,
the belted shapes which spoke of you more poignantly
than the photos in their careful frames.
Your shoes were their own country, the heels, satins,
the inexplicable mud — I scraped them with small fingernails,
marveling at the gorgeous debris, wishing I had a microscope.
I searched your handbags, examined them for signs,
evidence — where you were going, where you had been:
tickets, lipstick, inked hieroglyphics, a broken comb.
I even smelled your stockings, sniffing at the crotches
like a dog, frantic for any trace of you, my eyes raking
their length, wondering at ladders, searching for clues.
My father came upon me once, cross-legged on the floor,
his sad smile telling me more than any detection —
he took my hand, and closed the door.