Edison NJ, 1996

 

     is missing 

             in this apartment. Ancient make-

                           up spread across the low bureau 

            for a makeshift vanity. I only use 

cakey blue and stodgy red. (Once, 

            I filled in a whole colouring book 

                         with just spring-sky eyelids and 

            macintosh apple pouts.) I accompany 

my mom to the Asian market with a full 

             face of paint. Today, she doesn’t wipe it off. 

                          I get a whole tub of lychee jellies. I ask for 

              a new tea set. (I test my mother’s grief.) 

It comes in a painted cardboard box 

               with fuschia polyester lining. I never 

                          use it, and the jellies sit on top of the fridge 

                three years past expiration. Soon there is 

nothing left in the freezer that’s hers, either. 

                (No summer tomato soup, no blueberry pie, 

                           no rainy-day brioche dough.) Jack will not 

                 go hungry because he’s still handsome 

enough. Strangers see a sweet widower. 

                  A parade of old world girlfriends feed 

                           his ego, too. (They don’t know to take him 

                  to the Asian market.) My mother and I 

                  sort sweater sets and home-sewn 

wiggle dresses. (They still sit in my parents’ basement closet.) 

                  I take the makeup. (I never 

                  use it again.) We miss her 

                  arms the most.