“We all make mistakes,” I say.
I know she hears me.
I look out the window.
From under the quilt,
she says nothing.
Only her eye is visible
through a fold. I catch it,
then look at the leafless cottonwood.
Somewhere, a dog
is barking. Somewhere,
the scent of almond.
“And then,” I say, “we have
a chance to learn.”
The snow in the yard
flashes against the low sun.
A robin finds a spot
where spring is stealing in,
the grass already greening
between the porch and the snow.
“And sometimes,” I say,
“our mistakes hurt other people.”
In the other room, the sound
of a timer. The sound of
a sponge running over
the nap of the couch.
“And if we hurt someone,” I say,
“it can be important to tell them
we are sorry. But only,” I say,
“when we really are sorry.”
I look out the window,
wanting to notice something
instead of my own quiet hands.
My hands smooth the quilt
where her small hip rises.
I say, “We don’t always know
why we do what we do.”
The timer again. Scent
of almond. Scent of butter.
I say, “Mommy makes
mistakes, too.” I watch
the words as they leave
my mouth and land on the walls,
the quilt, the sill.
A dog barks. Again.
Sharp bleat of the timer.
I close my eyes. Neither
of us moves. Inside me
a door opens. I feel what’s left
of my anger leave with a limp.
“Do you want to ask me anything?”
I say. Slowly, she pulls the cover
away. Her face is soft, guileless
as fruit on a tree. She says
nothing, but perhaps I hear
in her the sound of a door opening.
In a number of ways, this is a sublime poem R. Particularly, “Inside me/a door opens. I feel what’s left//of my anger leave with a limp.[Love this image, anger departing, and its being a used-up, feeble thing, not such a raging beast.]//…She says/nothing, but perhaps hear//in her the sound of a door opening. Also, mommy’s focus is on her little girl, yet all around, between them(?), other things grab snippets of her attention. (And your choice of those ‘between things”: the outside world turning toward spring; the timer that’s being ignored while something continues baking in the oven, the couch being sponged clean.) Also, the single eye peeking from the folds of the quilt; the same quilt that’s later smoothed “where her small hip rises.” Each of these details tell so much, evoke so much in the reader.
But, this one more thing. I’m suspecting there’s a yin poem adjoined to this yang one. I want to see that poem—the one that takes place during the storm, not during the airing out afterward.
geeeeeez. you….are….beautiful. xo
You have prolonged that intermittent monologue to balance the details in front of the speaker so nicely, for without that sustained one-sided series of observations the reader (perhaps only this one) would not have seen that dramatic shift at the end, how this is really about the mother’s anger and not as it had seemed to focus on the offense of the little one. Nice.