she is still radiant. not radiant still. <br />unwrapping layers <br />of paper, removing the bow, flinging <br />off the box top—I robbed <br />her of a creaseless forehead <br />a smoother belly and miles of sweet sleep <br /> <br />today I am old she thinks <br />fifty candles melting into red velvet cake <br /> my eternity waiting <br /> to be extinguished—fade to black <br />even if the gray frizzy tendrils are unwieldy and obvious <br />in a mane of burnt auburn <br /> they found me out <br />even if the keys aren’t in the ignition—cast in the basket with mickey <br />and tennis balls and winnie the pooh— <br /> why can’t I remember <br />even if her hips are broad and she cannot see her stubby toes <br />even if she is filling the dishwasher with cascade, bending over— <br /> a fisherman gutting his catch <br />even if she cleans the toilet bowl, knees elbows yellow scrubbing gloves <br /> <br />if you could see my momma, all <br /> kind, beautiful face <br /> smooth coral nails and <br /> whipped cream soft cheeks <br /> infectious, shy smile and the tears in her eyes when she laughs real hard. <br />then you would know <br />what radiant is. <br /> <br />and my favourite things are my eskimo kisses <br />from a woman who is not quite young but not quite old but whose skin <br />glows <br />she bites back a smile, her left incisor snagging the skin slightly <br />her back bent, parallel to the pale ceiling, bent <br />over the ironing board <br />she stands there ironing <br />in all her glory <br />my nose twitching, barely unable to refrain from stealing <br />one last kiss<br /><br />Katie Finley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she-stands-there-ironing/
