Matriarch, Age Seven
Exploring her mother’s jewelry drawer,
she counts and sorts the chains,
their cold weight against her skin.
From the kitchen, the clatter of glasses
and dishes, her mother’s voice,
the pressure of the rushing faucet.
The sound of only water is her father,
his hushed anger, his palm
flat against the counter.
She follows their conversation
without the words, leans into the mirror.
She imagines her lips wide and powerful.
Outside the window,
one hundred birds in her own yard.
Dizzy with visions, she wanders into the hall,
pauses at the top of the stairs.
Grief has worn hard
the paths of these carpets.
Everywhere in the house
she feels it, though the majesty of emotion
she interprets as love.
(Originally published in Natural Bridge)
