SINS OF THE MOTHERS

Tonight as you pour wine

into our grandmother's goblets,

you remember her all in black, a pearl

band at her throat, the way you often saw her in her velvet chair,

never lifting a finger, a while I

see her snatch a handful of cookies

from a plate, hear her chuckle

as our widowed aunt retrieved them,

all but one. You were there too,

a small cousin, blond braids, huge

eyes, seen, you tell me now,

but never heard. We sip out wine,

etched glass roses under our finger–

tips, speak now of our own mothers,

how we haunt the nursing homes, as if

to make things right. With lamplight

on your bent head

you say how sometimes your mother

screams your name in sedate hallways.

I tell how once six nurses fought

to dress my mother,

how she struck at them

and threw her shoes in the sink,

and I think again of our grandmother

knitting her last baby blanket,

sight gone, fingers flying,

as the misshapen banner falls

and folds itself again

and again on the rug.