Why I Sing
(for Mom)
heat waves through the city, people’s nerves
raw
red-headed Ethiopian woman sells bottled
water for the penniless to the parched,
traffic
backs main artery for miles—slow drive home
a little girl . . .
in lemon-yellow dress, mother’s blue feather
boa,
marries Malibu Barbie to G.I. Joe in a hot
pink corvette
just before tossing them over the step for a
miraculous
recovery along a pile of rocks—
"Wings of a Dove," her chosen
rhapsody,
accompanied by clapping leaves
and mother’s humming as she hangs
white sheets on a clothesline against the
noonday sun
her voice floats on the stars in her hair, on
rivulets
that form at the corners of night-colored
eyes, a voice
no fancy feather boa could ever give to one
so small
notes halt between paling cheeks
don’t stop, Mom pleads around a clothespin
secures a sheet with two others, birds chirp
hear them? she frees her mouth
hands motion like cool water from the spigot
flowing towards the trees—
remember why you sing . . .
my backyard cools despite the heat—I hose
down
with the roses—sunlit wind rustles trees into
a gusty
back up for “Ode to Joy,” goldfinches twitter
and
warble from telephone poles while robins done
nesting
cheer up the roost
Olga Dugan