A Poem from My Mother to My Father
The way you stand
crooked, stooped
in doorways
unsure of where, why, what
the way you asked me
just last week
if we knew each other
the way I have to dress you
wash you
tell you
the time, the day, the season
the way you look at me
last thing
every night
is not
the way you looked at me
before
now, I tuck you in
seeing you
as your mother did
a boy again
now, I listen
to your apologies
quiet and stilted
yes, you are different
no, you are not the man
you were
before
I reassure you
remind you
that I
am not the woman
that I was
either
the look you give me when I do
it is you
and I am me
and we are us
again