Twilight

^{for my mother}

           After the men had 
eaten, as always, very 
           fast, and gone—I thought

           of them that way, my 
father and brother—the men— 
           not counting myself

           as of their kind—the 
time became our own, for talks, 
           for confidences—

           I was one of her,
though I could never be, a 
           deserter in an

           open field between 
two camps. Even my high school 
           said on its billboard,

           Give us a boy, and 
get back a man, a wager 
           that allowed for no

           exceptions, like an 
article of war. Gay child 
           years away from that

           lonely evening of 
coming out to her at last, 
           of telling her what

           she knew already 
and had waited for, I’d sit 
           in the kitchen with

           her after clearing 
the meal away, our hands all 
           but touching, letting

           a little peace fall 
around us for the evening, 
           coffee steaming in

           two cups, and try at 
ways of being grown, with her 
           as witness, telling

           the truth as I could— 
which is how, one night, that room
            became a minor,

           historically 
unrecorded battleground 
           of the Vietnam

           War. I think she knew 
before it began how she’d 
           be left standing in

           the middle with her 
improvised white flag, mother, 
           peacemaker, when I

           said I refused to 
go; never mind how, I’d thought
           her very presence,

           her mysterious 
calm, would neutralize any 
           opposing force, draft

           board, father—it’s not,  
we know, how that war came to  
           pass. For years I’d still

           call her at that hour, 
the work done and the darkness
           coming on, even

           all those years when Dad 
was the one who’d come to the
           phone first, and then not

           speak to me. Twilight 
times with her, when a secret 
           or what I thought was

           one could fall away 
beneath her patient regard, 
           though I would never

           manage to heal her 
hurts the way she tended mine— 
           those crossings-over

           to evening when the 
in-between of every kind 
           seemed possible, and

           doubt came clear, because 
she heard, and understood, and 
           did not turn away.