BARBARA CONRAD

RE-VAMPED

Being under the influence of dandelions

and other small things, I didn't know it then

but even at ten I wanted my mother bold.

Brassy sassy, drenched in spice

like her younger sister my aunt, who

that year came to live with us

wearing an Austin Healy convertible

and open-toed see-through sandals, exposing

shiny toenails red as my face

when she would coo and call me Sexy.

That year is why I now rewrite my mother

squeezing her twin bed tight

against my father's and re-shaping them

into one plump heart, prying open

their goodnight kisses, dressing her

with nouns that echo and verbs that quiver

like Jell-O, cherry-slivered, served

from a wide-mouth porcelain bowl,

white as winter flesh,

every bit of her

finally about dessert.

First published in TRP’s 25th Anniversary issue, Fall 2003; copyright © 2003 by Tar River Poetry.

All rights reserved.