from the New York Public Library
Ode to My Mother’s Body Wash
Mary Bradford
that grows a sedimentary yellow ridge
on my apartment’s shower shelf,
that she insisted on walking to CVS to buy,
and that she carried up the hill in a bag with peanut m&ms,
complaining that my eco-friendly one was drying;
stating that some things have been around forever for a reason;
chiding me my skin would look less dull if I used hers;
and, finally, yelling as I powered up the sidewalk
ahead of her, didn’t I know that my father had also switched
to it last winter after forty years of stubbornness.
to my mother’s body wash I send all her echoes
and presence imagining her voice and body,
smelling her here again.
Mary Bradford
that grows a sedimentary yellow ridge
on my apartment’s shower shelf,
that she insisted on walking to CVS to buy,
and that she carried up the hill in a bag with peanut m&ms,
complaining that my eco-friendly one was drying;
stating that some things have been around forever for a reason;
chiding me my skin would look less dull if I used hers;
and, finally, yelling as I powered up the sidewalk
ahead of her, didn’t I know that my father had also switched
to it last winter after forty years of stubbornness.
to my mother’s body wash I send all her echoes
and presence imagining her voice and body,
smelling her here again.