Going to visit my mother is like starting in on a play by Beckett.
You know that sense of sinking through crust,
the low black oh no of the little room
with walls too close, so knowable.
Clink and slow fade of toys that belong in memory
but wrongly appear here, vagrant and suffocated
on a page of pain,
she says when I ask.
And as in Beckett some high humor grazes
“we went out rowing on Lake Como”—
not quite reaching the lip.
Our love, that half-mad firebrand,
races once around the room
and hides again.