420 Readings | 5 Ratings
Rubbing My Mother’s Bald Head
More like a pear than stone, still soft
and with the bruises of age, the smooth skin speckled
with liver spots, like rainbow trout rolling
at the surface of some mountain creek, a sage
scarf cupping her head, marking
contours we had never seen as children,
the sharp curve of her cheeks, yellow and raw,
eyes, swirls of amber—darker now, and dull.
One night, in the bathroom, the scarf
came off easily enough. Even I, her
son, am timid to touch, holding my breath,
my wide rough hand grazing blond stubble.
When our eyes meet in the glare of the mirror,
I can’t help but smile; she can’t help but cry.
I let my hand make several passes over
her skull, each divot and groove—no
distance between us, fingers and lobes, temples—
fingerprints marking my maker.
Let her head be my magic lamp, tarnished and intricate,
my crystal ball, holding something greater than itself—
Let the sun burn back into the sky, reflections
from her shining head, little gifts to the world,
Let this gentle rubbing bring something worth
hoping for—
hands on our own heads, feeling, like we always
have, for answers, eyes closed, sensing what’s almost
palpable—the shape of things below.
and with the bruises of age, the smooth skin speckled
with liver spots, like rainbow trout rolling
at the surface of some mountain creek, a sage
scarf cupping her head, marking
contours we had never seen as children,
the sharp curve of her cheeks, yellow and raw,
eyes, swirls of amber—darker now, and dull.
One night, in the bathroom, the scarf
came off easily enough. Even I, her
son, am timid to touch, holding my breath,
my wide rough hand grazing blond stubble.
When our eyes meet in the glare of the mirror,
I can’t help but smile; she can’t help but cry.
I let my hand make several passes over
her skull, each divot and groove—no
distance between us, fingers and lobes, temples—
fingerprints marking my maker.
Let her head be my magic lamp, tarnished and intricate,
my crystal ball, holding something greater than itself—
Let the sun burn back into the sky, reflections
from her shining head, little gifts to the world,
Let this gentle rubbing bring something worth
hoping for—
hands on our own heads, feeling, like we always
have, for answers, eyes closed, sensing what’s almost
palpable—the shape of things below.
Posted 07/28/10