The Routine Things Around the House

    When Mother died

    I thought： now I'll have a death poem.

    That was unforgivable

    yet I've since forgiven myself

    as sons are able to do

    who've been loved by their mothers.

    I stared into the coffin¹

    knowing how long she'd live，

    how many lifetimes there are

    in the sweet revisions of memory.

    It's hard to know exactly

    how we ease ourselves back from sadness，

    but I remembered when I was twelve，

    1951， before the world

    unbuttoned its blouse.

    I had asked my mother （I was trembling）

    if I could see her breasts

    and she took me into her room

    without embarrassment² or coyness

    and I stared at them，

    afraid to ask for more.

    Now， years later， someone tells me

    Cancers who've never had mother love

    are doomed⁴ and I， a Cancer，

    feel blessed again. What luck

    to have had a mother

    who showed me her breasts

    when girls my age were developing

    their separated countries，

    what luck

    she didn't doom³ me

    with too much or too little.

    Had I asked to touch，

    perhaps to suck them，

    what would she have done？

    Mother， dead woman

    who I think permits me

    to love women easily，

    this poem

    is dedicated⁵ to where

    we stopped， to the incompleteness

    that was sufficient

    and to how you buttoned up，

    began doing the routine things

    around the house.