My Mother And I, Photographed
To look at me, you might guess
I was the blighted one—
gaunt and grimacing—
but it’s my mother who’s dying
beside me on the bench, smiling
as she tips her face to the sun. Dying
in her aviator shades, her pink socks
and sky blue slacks. A length of pearls.
Against a field of ice plant
thick with blossoms, my mother is dying.
She has given me her silver cane
to hold, or maybe,
in that moment, I took it from her.
I was the blighted one—
gaunt and grimacing—
but it’s my mother who’s dying
beside me on the bench, smiling
as she tips her face to the sun. Dying
in her aviator shades, her pink socks
and sky blue slacks. A length of pearls.
Against a field of ice plant
thick with blossoms, my mother is dying.
She has given me her silver cane
to hold, or maybe,
in that moment, I took it from her.
Cynthia White’s poems have appeared in Adroit, Narrative, Massachusetts Review, and ZYZZYVA among others. Her work can be found in numerous anthologies, including, Grabbed: Poets and Writers on Sexual Assault, Empowerment, and Healing. She was a finalist for The Slapering Hol 2021 Chapbook Prize and the winner of the Julia Darling Memorial Prize from Kallisto Gaia Press. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.