Carol’s Mom
When she smiles no crows feet 
pleat the corners of her eyes
or laugh lines groove around her mouth.
Fogged up glasses don’t slide to the tip of her nose
while she squints at her sewing.
No cigarette wobbles from the side of her mouth drizzling
ashes
or underarms flap when she waves.
Her hair is curled to a neat blonde casque
no Medusa grey coils dangle from her kerchief.
No greenish blue veins snake their way up her legs
or broad hips sway like a dray mare.
instead there is you
to cook my meals, wash my clothes , wipe my tears
and know that I wish that you were not my mother.
onthevirg 