From her chair by the window,
Mother watches crows settle in the pines.
I can call them, she says.
I caw and they come.
Underneath the table,
her tiny dog snores his tiny snore.
I search through piles of papers on the desk
for notices and bills;
I make us cups of tea.
She scolds me for carrying
a stack of books she thinks too heavy.
I scold her because she bends
to pick a paperclip from the floor.
She won’t write captions
for the family photos,
her trip to Mexico after the War.
I don’t bring her copies
of my poems or tell her
I’m writing a book.
Our failures persist like rusty stains
on Grandma’s tablecloth.
Mother can say You’re doing
so well. You make me so happy
but that’s not something I know how
to hear. You did what you had to do,
I can say, but she knows
so well that I am wrong.
Caw, she says, caw.
Now come and see.
Three crows launch from the trees
and fly toward the window,
across the snowy yard.
beautiful, graceful. the imagery is so strong in this poem — paperclips, rusty tablecloth stains, and of course the crows themselves. there is an air of magical realism here, and an air of inevitable sadness that one finds in a marquez novel. somehow, though, my first thought was of a painting — “whistler’s mother.”
Thanks for your kind words. This was a strange poem to write. The last year of my mom’s life was a sort of magical realism–I’d never quite thought of it that way before. And I also think she could call crows. My brother-in-law can. A couple of years ago, I moved an injured raven from the roadside and covered it with leaves. When I went back the next day, there was no sign of it. And two days later, as I walked down that road, a raven circled low over my head three times. I”ve yet to write a poem about that–it was a rather wonderful thing!