On the day I graduated from saltines
to toast, and could manage
a few laps around the bedroom
with the two transparent tubes,
and needles stuck
into my arterial veins,
my mother showed up at the door
demanding I take my wig off so she could see
what I looked like now that my hair
had all fallen out, every eyelash curl,
every inch of peach fuzz, gone,
her face cocked
in the way that Parkinson's had set it
like a wind up toy missing a part,
her pants too short, and socks lewdly unmatched,
her turquoise eyes, sparkling,
as she gripped the banister, sturdying herself,
leaning on her avuncular cane,
so I yanked the wig off, and stood there
with my rolling IV,
as if this were some kind of accomplishment
and she did not flinch or shudder
the way she did at the sight of blood,
but instead, kept staggering towards me,
as if she wanted
to rock my bald head in her hands,
as if it had suddenly dawned on her:
“you are my beautiful baby.”
This poem appeared in the February 18, 2009 issue of the magazine.