Poetry |
Haibun 1
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My mother has soft skin, an aquiline nose, and crooked teeth. Her smile is wide and lilting. Behind thick harlequin glasses her eyes are the color of a chocolate Lab. Each morning we cut roses from the garden, the dew a little cold on our fingers—our special time together. In her pedagogical moods she instructs me about men—they all look alike in the dark. Though she feigns indifference toward my boyfriend, she secretly looks up his IQ. She means well.
However, sometimes she wants to hug me more tightly than I like. From time to time when we go shopping together on the bus, a scruffy female stranger across the aisle stands up and looks me in the eye. I get ready to answer a question, maybe some travel directions. Then she rises from her seat and moves slowly toward me, as though slogging through pea soup. All of a sudden she leaps upon me and starts to bite off my nose. I instantly recognize the stranger as my mother.
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About Mary Heldman
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