Look At Me

 

I must have done it
we all did
ran and jumped into the pool
shouting Mom, Mom, look at me.

I can still feel it
eyes burning
skin dry from chlorine and sun
fun under her watchful eye.

Today I whisper quietly
feeling ancient tears
behind dry eyes
Mom, Mom, look at me.

~ Robin J. Phillips March 1, 2020

My Middle Name Is Joan

I loved my Aunt Joan’s house
after school. That’s where we 
checked in before heading home
a block away to listen to music and
work on homework ‘til Mom came home.

Some lucky days I hung out with
Joan, a child of Wyoming, 
wife of a Nebraska farmer now 
tending a backyard garden in the suburbs.

I balanced on a kitchen stool, thumbing 
through True Crime and watching
Joan play solitaire and smoke 
her way through a box of Kents.

She played at rapid speed
slapping down 52 cards in sequence
leading to four neat piles, 
hearts, spades, clubs, diamonds.

I never thought she was paying much 
attention to me until she tapped the table,
ground down her cigarette and announced,
‘Let’s go to the back porch and shuck some peas.’

~ Robin J. Phillips Feb. 23, 2020

Big Bag of Pills

I don’t have my mother’s eyes
I don’t have my mother’s nose
I do have a diamond ring and a Dali print
Mom bought on a cruise one time
that my brother thinks is worthless.

And I have a big bag of pills sitting in
the corner of a closet that I can’t
bring myself to look at or flush or take
to CVS for safe disposal. 

Mom’s medicine was meant to keep her
heart alive and keep her spirit strong
and keep her here with me.

She’s no longer here with me.
The pills stay in the closet.

~ Robin J. Phillips Feb. 18, 2020

The Moths Are Back

 

 

I didn’t know the moths were back
until I saw one crushed by the cupboard door
above the laundry. 

It must have come inside early
fleeing from the late snow
taking refuge in the warm, damp
room where we clean clothes and
store cans of peas, supplies for the winter.

~ Robin J. Phillips Feb. 13, 2020