Faint
My mother’s handbag strap catches
a door handle, slams her facedown
on cold concrete. All these years
watching her progress from house
to car in case of days like these.
Her coat sleeves make life dangerous.
It’s not this season that takes her so far
from feeling, but all the bitter seasons.
Into the phone, I repeat words twice,
three times, until she grunts.
She understands or just wants me
to stop. How her eyes water but her
lips are dry and white. Her ribs shake.
I want to swaddle her the way
she swaddled me in the sunny kitchen,
Cream of Rice bubbling over low flame.
She cooked with milk instead of water
because she wanted me to taste
what’s sweet. Nobody can get half
the warmth they need.
a door handle, slams her facedown
on cold concrete. All these years
watching her progress from house
to car in case of days like these.
Her coat sleeves make life dangerous.
It’s not this season that takes her so far
from feeling, but all the bitter seasons.
Into the phone, I repeat words twice,
three times, until she grunts.
She understands or just wants me
to stop. How her eyes water but her
lips are dry and white. Her ribs shake.
I want to swaddle her the way
she swaddled me in the sunny kitchen,
Cream of Rice bubbling over low flame.
She cooked with milk instead of water
because she wanted me to taste
what’s sweet. Nobody can get half
the warmth they need.
November / December 2022
Dara-Lyn Shrager lives in Princeton, New Jersey, and is the co-founder and editor of Radar Poetry. Her full-length collection, Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, was published by Barrow Street Books in 2018. She holds an MFA from Bennington College and a BA from Smith College. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in many journals, including Crab Creek Review, Southern Humanities Review, Barn Owl Review, and Nashville Review. Her articles have appeared in newspapers and magazines including The New York Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and Philadelphia Magazine.
Art: Museum. Oil on canvas. T. Aguilera.