Ask the Doctor  #130
February, 1998

Mother's gourd lay locked
behind strong oak
Small arms
bundled knees to chest
I jostle outside
in the night gallery
My presence unknown

Burnt burlap
wall patterns transfigured
into garish gargoyles
My emotional fears impervious
to this psychological cuirass
I waited; closet moth to monarch
for myself and mother

Ask the doctor;
the doctor mother never believed
She said she was ready for death
not caring
for those of us who were not
The angel entered
from a wood-worn window
framed in
bleached blowing gauze
to the luminous
surrounding mother
and her ashen, paisley face
We knelt
ageless children
around a campfire
The clock's hands
made impetuous
by silence

she left the room;
a fragrance in linens
I have yet to remove