Portrait

Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Once I saw your mother as a wife.
Sunday morning she stood at the stove,
pressing her wrist against her hip.

She wore a robe, red as fever.
Her shorn hair glowed like a burn
and fire haloed the filter of her cigarette.

One bare breast welcomed the sun; steam
curved from the tin kettle. She wiped
her eyes, over and over.

Turning her head, silent
as a caged bird, your mother lifted a wedge
of lemon and sucked on it.

By then I had been kissed by a man
and knew something of the crumple
around the corners of our mouths
on ugly mornings like those.