The Ache of the Empty Fairground

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I speak to my mom every day.
When we connect,
the fragrance of memory arrives 
like prairie storm clouds
filled with impending sauces,
dabs of Chanel,
and finger-painted lotions
which were applied
to the taut skin canvas
of pale white legs
and shy ankles.

And there are sounds
which are light years away
the rapture of records
the duet of parakeets
the side show of television
the unbreakable code of Yiddish.
Just a word or two 
and I am back in our tiny apartment castle
where the Queen
wore a thorny crown of rollers
and the armor of a girdle
while the King pulled his dreams
like a plow horse
in the field of the family.

We talk
my mom and I
covering the vast territory 
of nothing and everything
I ask her about dad,
how he’s doing
because I know that he’s listening from 
behind the citadel of 
a snap-open newspaper
where he spent most of his life hiding
behind the headlines.

And in the end, 
when it’s time to go
which always feels like the sadness of
the late afternoon playground
I always say
that I miss her
which I have for years now
Since the day that she died
since the day that sure disappeared
with the traveling circus of parents
who overnight
pulled up stakes,
folded their tents,
without fanfare or notice
and silently boarded the train
leaving behind
the ache of the empty fairground
where today
millions of orphaned dandelions 
stare at the sky
like children who
hold their breath 
and watch the acrobats fly.





















































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