the daughter usually nests in a curve of the mother's hair or neck like it was a cave
the way cats do the night it starts to snow
Some seem to suck on the mother's breath. You might think the mother had eyes in her fingers
Often her hands are on the daughter's shoulders, pulling her close, as if
she wanted to press her back inside
Curling on the Bottom of
My Mother's Bed
as she would on mine in different houses, bring me iced tea at midnight or cold chicken we'd devour with our fingers after a date. I don't think she minded having to take my arm in dark restaurants or crossing the street, a good reason to touch me as she does more freely now as light in June starts shriveling. We whisper to each other these past 41 days we haven't been apart, like new lovers who feel what they have so rare they can't bear to sleep apart
Lyn Lifshin has published more
than 120 books of poetry, including, most recently, Ballroom (March Street Press), Katrina (Poetic Matrix Press), Barbaro: Beyond Brokenness (Texas Review Press), Desire (World Parade Books), Persephone (Red Hen Press), Another Woman Who Looks Like Me,Following Cold Comfort and Before It's Light (Black Sparrow Press at David Godine), and The
Licorice Daughter: My Year with Ruffian (Texas
Review Press).
