Poetry | September 01, 1997
Root
Elizabeth Kirschner
That night, Lily and her mother
are home alone. Tom has gone
to play poker with Ivan
and the men. Gloria knows
Ivan will clean him out,
but has said nothing.
After TV, Lily goes upstairs
with her mother—it’s time
to get ready for bed.
Gloria stands in the closet
while she undresses. As she talks to the girl,
each word lands
in an empty future.
Snow falls
outside the window.
Lily watches it fly
past the moon as she lies perched
on her parents’ bed. The flakes
are like picked flowers—
fleeting, rootless.
How sad, she thinks,
but then she glimpses
her mother’s dark,
twisted body turning
in the closet. Her torso
is a deep root; bitter,
strong. Nothing can pull her
from this earth,
or so it seems, and for this alone,
Lily loves her.
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