Mother

By MARY ANNE REESE

You dipped buttered toast
in cinnamon and sugar,
strained the custard seven
times. When we moved
east, you softened
your mountain sound
to a drawl. You veered
from the wheel of hurt
to the wheel of fortune
and back. You could hear
it snow. You dyed
spike heels to match
your dress and tied
a scarf beneath your chin.
You could name
the wildflowers and birds.
You wove an oval
braided rug blue
as your eyes. You ordered
yourself a mai tai
and me a Shirley Temple,
both served with a cherry.

Mary Anne Reese is a Cincinnati attorney with a graduate degree in English from Northern Kentucky University. Her poetry chapbook, Raised by Water, was published by Finishing Line Press.


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