My mother called me a
long tall drink of water;
I understand
when you lie on my bed
after a bath, your wet hair
in brown branches
forking up above your face,
your magnolia feet hanging
off the bottom of the mattress,
your eyes level
with mine on the pillow,
blue and blue endlessly.
This is the bridge you build
between my mother and me
without trying;
this is the route she didn’t find.
I say it to you;
know that I will find you
somewhere later, remembering.
Mark my words,
mark this road;
I will come this way
and a hundred others.
|