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Column 413

Portraits

Intro by Ted Kooser
02.17.2013

Every day, hun­dreds of thou­sands of us are pre­oc­cu­pied with keep­ing up a civ­il if not lov­ing rela­tion­ship with our par­ents. In this poem, Mark Irwin (who lives in Col­orado) does a beau­ti­ful job in por­tray­ing, in a dream­like man­ner, the com­plex­i­ties of just one of those relationships.

Portraits

Mother came to visit today. We
hadn’t seen each other in years. Why didn’t
you call? I asked. Your windows are filthy, she said. I know,
I know. It’s from the dust and rain. She stood outside.
I stood in, and we cleaned each one that way, staring into each other’s eyes,
rubbing the white towel over our faces, rubbing
away hours, years. This is what it was like
when you were inside me, she said. What? I asked,
though I understood. Afterwards, indoors, she smelled like snow
melting. Holding hands we stood by the picture window,
gazing into the December sun, watching the pines in flame.
 

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Disclaimer

We do not accept unsolicited submissions

We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2010 by Mark Irwin from his most recent book of poems, Large White House Speaking, New Issues, 2013 and reprinted by permission of Mark Irwin and the publisher.  Poem first printed in The Sun, July 2010.   Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.