Plum trees glaze the path with a riot
of pink blossoms which must have brought
the bee that takes a prurient interest

in Mother walking along. Or her
optic yellow slicker. Or the flag
of striped peppermint candy under

her tongue. She fears his vibrating stinger
as she fears loose dogs, and she hears
barking ahead. Her mind

twists and turns. It won't be quieted.
It's pulled the sheets out
from the casket of its cranium

and lays her bare. Sweet pink knots
of loosened blooms trace gusts of wind.
Mother's eye attends them quantum

by quantum. She's tired
of the sore ribbon of skin
rubbed raw by her bra. She's tired

of rewinding her downfall.
Midnight. Two. Four a.m. Still
her body prods her with its hungers.

Two women bear toward her, arm in arm.
One, young, narrates in a well-oiled hum.
The other, wiry gray,

is blind. Her white cane dangles on her wrist
and she's grinning. Her gaze is focused
mid-distance and she's grinning

and that grin won't be wished away.
It follows Mother home. Mother closes her eyes
and that blind grin bleeds like a spot of sun.

There are moments when the body drifts
above the dazzling parade. Mother closes her eyes
and that blind grin bleeds like a spot of sun.

Kathleen Flenniken