It's hard for me to look.
I want my mother to be a swan
who never leaves the water,
not this crone
with gravy on her chin.
Aging, why couldn't her passion
have been jewelry?
Or collecting porcelain
angels with violins?
She spreads butter
on her slice of bread.
Bows her head
to the task at hand
like a gleaner at twilight
too busy gathering bits of grain
to hear the Angelus.
Elisabeth Murawski's first book of poems, Moon and Mercury, is available.