My Mother is Dispersed

Susan Wicks

                   The open window
admits her body. Soapy water still circles
the shape of her rough finger, the steam
from the runner beans displaces her
only slightly. I fill my lungs with her,
turn, expel her gently into
sunlight. The grass under the apple-tree
pushes up into her. A creeping wasp
buries itself deep in her dark places.