In the movie the mother, Sherry, isn’t quite right.
In the movie the mother, Sherry, doesn’t get her way.
In the movie the mother knows what she’s lost.
In the movie the mother is the baby.
My mother had a friend named Sherry, tanned and infinitely freckled,
who was afraid of losing her health insurance and liked to sail.
I also remember Sylvia, Elayne, Beth, Paula, Jean, and Peggy,
my matter-of-fact and afternoon beach mothers.
In the movie the mother runs across a neighborhood
and through two playgrounds to escape her own shadow.
Little reminder, little comfort, little wait.
In the movie the mother sleeps on top of the sheets.
In the movie the mother is a user, a stripper, a flirt.
In the movie called The Mother
all of the good roles are played by drag queens.
My mother doesn’t wear lipstick.
My mother just retired.
In my movie called The Mother, I am always awake.
I use the window shades as eyelids.
Don’t blink, there’s always something to miss.
The remake of my movie is called Broken Wing, Little Worry,
and in it the night is the mother.
In the ninth grade, I stayed out walking until 3 am with my friends.
We sang Cat Stevens’ “Peace Train” repeatedly,
using the curb as a precarious stage.
I couldn’t see, or rather, it never occurred to me to see,
my mother awake and waiting by the moon.