This open form poem is about my mother. She underwent brain surgery when I was about 4 or 5 and was unable to drive. To get around town, she pulled my 2 year old brother and me around in a red wagon.
I wrote this in the fall of 2009.
A mother in recovery
knows nothing but uncertainty.
Her dark brown hair will grow again
and curl to hide the plateau line,
although for now her neck grows cold
without its under tows. Along
her head are metal tracks, composed
of staples, cold and flat. And so
for months she wears nice hats,
like Derby women with easy lives.
And like a horse she pulls her colts
on wagon wheels across the town.
Her calves grow stronger week by week,
her shoes worn down, her children large
and tiresome. But when the kids
are old enough to walk beside
their merry mom, her mane is long
and she is glad to rid herself
of woven hats,
feeling a sense of certainty.