Decades have passed
by Marge Piercy
Mother, would you know me now?
You were jealous of my slenderness
always asked how I stayed thin.
I had no answer. And now I’m fleshy
not like you were, in your misery
only something sweet could quiet
but would you know me? Your eyes
are mine now, I ache as you did.
I can no longer walk ten miles
on my new titanic knees. I had
cataracts the same as you, but I
could pay to have them removed.
I don’t have to beg to buy a new
coat. Watching your life, I swore
always to support myself and have
but the poverty we shared shaped me.
I am always laying up food in case
it goes away. I have more sweaters
than I need. I buy in bulk and stow.
I will always fear indebtedness.
I like to think you’d look in my face
and still say daughter. I am only
a few years younger than you were
when I lost you, flying south to you
when my father turned off your
ventilator so I never said goodbye.
I dream you stand in my kitchen
watching me cook and you smile.
Copyright © 2016 by Marge Piercy.