Irene Harriet

I write this for you

I have written several pieces about my profligate life, about how many times I disappointed my parents, particularly Irene, and yet, this poem speaks of her never leaving me, attached as we are, my eyes among those bright and bold of hers, that remain for me very, very clear long after her cancer had eaten her up.

this is a poem to my mother Irene
whom I have left a thousand times
whose bright eyes always surprised me
whenever she was angry
whenever she reacted to my bluntness
my unfeeling denigration
of her thoughts, her ideas
her stubborn insistence
on an honesty
on a truthfulness
on integrity
none of which she’d allow me
not to know.

I thought I knew you
and knew me
until your body
started taking feed
upon itself
and I watched it slowly
eat you up
confine you to a chair
then force you
to sleep to sleep
preparing me for times
when you’re not here.

So I write this for you
and for others who might care
that Irene the Terrible’s eyes
were always bright
and bold
and very very clear.

February 5, 1994

Details