It is a mild day in the suburbs

Windy, a little gray. If there is

sunlight, it enters through the

kitchen window and spreads

itself, thin as a napkin, beside

the coffee cup, pie on a plate

 

What am I describing?

I am describing a dream

in which nobody has died

 

These are our mothers:

your mother and mine

It is an empty day; everyone

else is gone. Our mothers

are sitting in red chairs

that look like metal hearts

and they are smoking

Your mother is wearing

sandals and a skirt. My

mother is thinking about

dinner. The bread, the meat

 

Later, there will be

no reason to remember

this, so remember it

now:! a safe day. Time

passes into dim history.

 

And we are their babies

sleeping in the folds of

the wind. Whatever our

chances, these are the

women. Such small talk

before life begins