Mother came to visit today. We
hadn’ t seen each other in years. Why didn’ t
you call? I asked. Your windows are filthy, she said. I know,
I know. It’ s from the dust and rain. She stood outside.
I stood in, and we cleaned each one that way, staring into each other’ s eyes,
rubbing the white towel over our faces, rubbing
away hours, years. This is what it was like
when you were inside me, she said. What? I asked,
though I understood. Afterwards, indoors, she smelled like snow
melting. Holding hands we stood by the picture window,
gazing into the December sun, watching the pines in flame.