Once. On a dare. In a Powder Puff Derby.
She stayed in the car, finished the race. Never
cried.

Last summer we, your four adult children,
thought we would be burying you before
Christmas, next to dad on one of Colne’s
green hills.

We walk my garden together.
The rounds of aggregate form a path
that fit my step, stumble up his.

He is a baby really, on a mission,
missing his mommy.

You call to tell me what you cannot have
at your party, what the doctor will condemn:

frosted cake, white wine, black crepe paper.
Later, we stand in your kitchen, washing

the approved-of strawberries, and you tell me about a man…

Their eyes speak first, these babies of my babies.
Lips, cheeks, sweet smell.
By the way, my mother is losing her mind, I whisper.

In star time,
you have already been
parsley turning its curls to the sun
in someone’s backyard garden,
Mom.