The Routine Things Around the House

    When Mother died

    I thought： now I'll have a death poem.

    That was unforgivable

    yet I've since forgiven myself

    as sons are able to do

    who've been loved by their mothers.

    I stared into the coffin

    knowing how long she'd live，

    how many lifetimes there are

    in the sweet revisions of memory.

    It's hard to know exactly

    how we ease ourselves back from sadness，

    but I remembered when I was twelve，

    1951， before the world

    unbuttoned its blouse.

    I had asked my mother （I was trembling）

    if I could see her breasts

    and she took me into her room

    without embarrassment or coyness

    and I stared at them，

    afraid to ask for more.

    Now， years later， someone tells me

    Cancers who've never had mother love

    are doomed and I， a Cancer，

    feel blessed again. What luck

    to have had a mother

    who showed me her breasts

    when girls my age were developing

    their separated countries，

    what luck

    she didn't doom me

    with too much or too little.

    Had I asked to touch，

    perhaps to suck them，

    what would she have done？

    Mother， dead woman

    who I think permits me

    to love women easily，

    this poem

    is dedicated to where

    we stopped， to the incompleteness

    that was sufficient

    and to how you buttoned up，

    began doing the routine things

    around the house.