You are a a canon bursting through their artful hedges,
you are a blonde sonic boom,
a megaton atom,
as you crash through the front door and employ
your opera vocals to the tune of your intention
to go sledding.
You used to clean your voice teacher’s house,
you tell us,
in that way you talk,
lips curling around each “r” like
children clinging to their parents in a crowd,
he made you sing for another student,
to show her how it was done,
while you tried to hide the cloth and Windex;
you said it was mean of him,
but you smiled, too.
You married her daughter’s husband,
and I wonder what she thinks of you as
she pleasantly smiles. I think she likes you.
Maybe her daughter would have, as well,
if she were still alive;
her children call you “Mother” now,
along with the others.
Six yellow ducklings in a row.
You wade through snow pants and mittens,
laid out on white sheets like bodies,
like her body when she left them,
before you came.
Are you saving them?
I want to eat their little thoughts,
and swim through their fading memories.
I never knew her,
but they did,
And when I see you,
it’s all I can think about.