She enters a room
with a compact stare
a two inch by two inch
sort of thing that SNAPS
SHUT sooner rather than
later and if you get chewed
in her moments, get a leg
caught in the trap of her gaze?
count yourself lucky to have
not been devoured on the spot
or stomped by the CLICK
CLACK of her heels or
simply shoved sideways
between act I and act II
of one of her excruciating
plays
She enters a room in large
strides, legs like a compass
with two sharp toes marking
the divide because NO ONE
shares her space, even as she
marches head first into a wall
or face down into your purse
she is ALL GEOMETRY,
GET IT? not your sort of thing
My mother hovers like a
florescent bulb, leaving spots
in her wake, purple, mostly
she leaves a room ******
of its color, she's a *******
layer cake
She exits always in great haste
she takes the wind with her
and leaves NOTHING behind
not even you, a second thought
a ticket for two- mother,
daughter, orchestra
seating (she leaves before
intermission, with a cough
and a cloud and a hubbub
even the actors notice her
ugly absence, YOU)
Mother Darling, once
reaching the end, you
could say (and you do,
YOU DO) she was perfect
when vertical and even
when folded in half, a
pretty good sport
(Now, layered in ashes,
she will spend her days
in a horizontal haze and
just to be sure you give her
urn a good shake or two
as any old friend would
and well OF COURSE you
do)