Lineage

My mother is dead and alive. Alwaysright in front of me at the round kitchen tableeating the lunch I made her. King on a leather couch,hound under each arm and a life that will end her.Legacy: me. My speech at the funeral drones on.She walks down the hallway and tiptoes to kissthe childhood picture of herself hangingwith the rest of ours. She pushes back from the tableand is gone in the night. I smell like her perfumed kissfor hours after she goes off to work. We findthe shed bursting with poppies when she's gone,cultivated in secret. For years my middle namewas one too. It is important to have a motherwho will tell you that most things in the worldhave nothing to do with you. Eat your lunch.