MY MOTHER AND THE LILAC’S

Like whatever mattered most to

Her, except me. She never got them.

The once her rooms were filled with

That orchid’s snow and musk

“To the ceiling.” She’d say for fifty years.

A surprise, from the man she couldn’t marry.

Like the house she never had,

She planned and looked for it,

As she did her last few years.

Rubber sandals as if she wants had shriveled.

My Father never cared about a house. Still she

Clipped articles on drapes. Slip covers.

Folded them like soft flannel

For a child that is still born, that

You’re dreamt. She saw the out times.

The front lawn her daughters

Wouldn’t be so ashamed to bring

Boys to in photograph albums she’d

Date carefully as if to prove real

Copyright by Lyn Lifshin

Lyn is a well known published poet. Her works have appeared in various online and printed anthology world wide.