A Mothers Day poem

In winter, the stars
Can suck the light
Right out of the sky.
It must have been like that
The night I was born
In the camp,
Although I had no clue
About that kind of thing.

My brothers, already ancient
Thought the bombed-out
Staircases, leading only up
And nowhere else,
Were built that way on purpose,
For them to play on,
And inevitably jump or fall,
Gravity victorious after all.

Children can’t be disappointed,
Having expected nothing.
Children think hunger
Is normal, pain is life,
And deprivation obvious.

Mothers aren’t like that.
They only wish their children
Could long for something.

My secretly beautiful mother

She danced across
The living room floor
Her fat legs transformed
Into feather-light wisps
Of summer air
Arms akimbo
A coquettish smile aglow.

You could have seen the gypsy girl
In her, that ancient thread
Of life she clung
So dearly to
In the face of all
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
Trying desperately
To send her to hell.