My Mother’s Mattress
Upstairs, in the heat, beside the handkerchiefs,
my mother’s navy-blue horsehair mattress
still, although it’s August, smells of damp,
of horses in the hush of damp forests,
of Spassky, still a child, playing chess
all day long, with nobody, in silence –
Spassky, whose seductive ingenuity
my mother has no need to understand.
The eerie bittern – this may sound unfair –
spends her days pretending to be reeds
and people think she’s sulking, but she’s not,
she’s like my mother: sunlight gives her headaches.
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