By Sharon Waller Knutson

watches him from across
the room with wide eyes
as steady as a movie camera,

flat ears tuning in to a frequency
only a mother can hear,
listening for pending danger:

a cough, uneven breath,
the sound of glass breaking
or strange footsteps on the stairs,

lips parted as if the right words
lie frozen on the tip of her tongue
like the icicles on the porch.

Although she watches his wardrobe
change as he stretches from
twenty inches to six foot three,

his mother always wears her red
silk dress with white pearls and
two-inch-high platform heels,

and her hands, which remain by her side
and out of the sun and soapy water, remain
as soft as when she held him that one time.

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