Joe Dolce: ‘Dead Mother’

Dead Mother

Dead mother is a doll, with a doll’s face,
left neatly unwrapped, in the creamy quilted case.
Someone has positioned a hair of silver chain, and clasped it,
across her fist, but she can’t really grasp it.
The calligrapher has stitched Going Home, in white silk,
and I Love You Grandma welts from little lime cushions, like milk.
Her golden wig is brushed, nesting the head, beige jacket
and blouse to match it, buttoned at neck.
Someone has powdered the thin
face and patched it, with puttied skin,
a not-quite-in-synch
puzzle-of-pink.
I look away.
Her thin rose lips taunt
a bittersweet kiss,
as if to say,
do whatever you want
(but perhaps I am imagining this).
Her nails are painted,
eyes waxed shut and tinted,
drop-earrings hang askew,
as if to say, who would wear pearls to bed, in a box, would you?
Suddenly, I feel my mother’s hand in mine.
That’s not really me, she says, so kind.
I know, I softly intone,
and we go outside, standing together on grey stone.
I’d like to go for a walk now with you,
she says, and we do,
so closely pressed,
leaving the son, quietly weeping there, on unfamiliar steps.

Joe Dolce