It is a mild day in the suburbs Windy, a little gray. If there is sunlight, it enters through the kitchen window and spreads itself, thin as a napkin, beside the coffee cup, pie on a plate What am I describing? I am describing a dream in which nobody has died These are our mothers: your mother and mine It is an empty day; everyone else is gone. Our mothers are sitting in red chairs that look like metal hearts and they are smoking Your mother is wearing sandals and a skirt. My mother is thinking about dinner. The bread, the meat Later, there will be no reason to remember this, so remember it now: a safe day. Time passes into dim history. And we are their babies sleeping in the folds of the wind. Whatever our chances, these are the women. Such small talk before life begins
From The Sensual Word Re-Emerges by Eleanor Lerman. Copyright © 2010 by Elanor Lerman. Used by permission of Sarabande Books. All rights reserved.