Once, my mother wanted protection, a letter  

from a foreign lover, a coat with sleeves wide  

like wings, and me trundling after, stumbling  

over the gap between us. What matters now?

Its narrowness, how hazy that divide.

She, so slick and hard-edged, my 

iceberg turned dross into, well, not gold

but gave her life a glossy sheen.

Beauty, her guiding star—

if only we were fabulous.

So much made us different, and yet—

I can’t help but wonder, if held up to the light,  

I’d see her fears—of harm, loneliness

lit blue like fire in me, and my dream

to wander, secure in a self, pulsing hot in her.

Call down the angels, quiet the music,

so many trips back and forth, hands folded  

on a tray table, praying and then—

the papery gown the shuffling slippers the oozing  

the closed door.