She doesn’t take off her rings
Or her oversized downcoat.
She breaks an egg and leaves
The shell to linger by the pack
Of generic cigarettes.
One still burns.
I mean to tell her
How I love her, her gray hair,
Nothing but an old elastic
To hold it. Sometimes she holds
Onto the counter. Emphysema.
When she laughs, she coughs.
But it doesn’t stop her
From laughing, laughing
At a daughter who can’t cook
Or at least pretends not to know
That the red of life clings
To the crumb of regret.
Tell me again, mother, I forget
Is it the onion --
That makes you cry,
Or is it something else?
The meatloaf?
Will I never make it right?
Just tell me before the last one burns.
