The Ache of the Empty Fairground

I speak to my mom every day

When we connect

the fragrance of memory arrives 

like prairie storm clouds

filled with

A dab 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-opened 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

and disappeared

with the traveling circus of parents

who overnight

pulled up stakes,

folded their tents,

and without fanfare or notice

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