by Donna Prinzmetal
In the desert
my young mother stands in profile
next to her own shadow–
porcelain neck, dark glamorous hair,
red blossoms on the tips of ocotillo.
Last night I was a barn owl,
those long diagonal eye slits chiseled
into my heart-shaped face.
After years of collecting
the soft moans of strangers,
my mouth is hollow
possessed by all the lost words.
From the white wall, my mother’s hair
blinks back the blinding light.
She is looking away from me.
Before my body froze
I was always smoldering
in the astonished sunlight
where grapefruits thump
from their lofty perches,
yellow skin rising about the grass.
In another picture, my young mother
is laughing from a porch swing. Even in black
and white, I can see the plump red lips,
the hibiscus in her hair.
Donna Prinzmetal is a poet, psychotherapist and teacher. Her poems have appeared in many magazines including Prairie Schooner, The Cincinnati Review, and The Journal. Her first book, Snow White, When No One Was Looking, was published with CW Books in May of 2014.