You parade her photos before him,
proof that your mother’s beauty
was not a daughter’s delusion.
Side by side in one snap,
He ignores you at 14, unlovely as a juvenile bird,
but ogles her film star pout.
So you are hurled back to that day
she bowled up to college in a scarlet sports car,
snatching the gaze of the boy
who had replaced Donnie in your dreams,
and slouching and snarling on the homeward drive
your pride in her curdled to jealousy.
Since you can never introduce him to this woman
after her beauty’s talent has been spent,
you consider scarring her face with acid truths,
banishing her pictures to forgotten corners.
So you need no longer fumble with coffee lid
afraid to leave the two of them together in the other room.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear from you.