Mother

I was twelve when the brutal sun pooled
In white hot hard squares on the carpet.
Through the blank window frames
The tinny rasp of cicadas, in frenzy, crescendoed
To a foreign cacophony pf buzzing.
Inside, though, it was contrasting cool.
I didn’t know then how you,
With patient quiet,
Longed for emerald hills
And swift pouring rain:
Cigarettes in back alleys;
High jinx from school;
Trouble in the park.
After our grimly restrained hysteria
The moment - embarrassing then -
Now ascends a new territory.
With your burden, 'til now your own,
You reached for the rice – father's return -
And shook it like much wives’ good advice.
Within stirred an unwanted life.
You yelped then and water
Sprung in tides, not for the lice
That quickly sulked in corners,
But for the other far off things