After Eating Pizza at Your Grave
The nasturgeons are in bloom and I miss you,
though our past was faux and we got everything
bass awkward, Mom. Sometimes you threw
me a loop and I flew it---why just this morning
I bent in the shower and scrubbed the hollow
of my ankle with my thumb, made a shallow pink
bowl of it. You taught me this, When I Became
A Woman, how the dirt sticks in there like a bruise.
I wash and wash, and when I borrow a slip
or a coin or a mutton chop I return them promptly.
No one has to ask. You were floundering
when you told me that salmon is the Prozac
of the sea, but it was years before I met a grizzly
whose life was changed by that. Of your two eyes
the glass one had clearer vision. If you could only see
the dolphiniums threading the whitecaps today,
you would know that I mean what I say.
Suzanne Simmons' work has previously been published in The New York Times, The Baltimore Review, Fifth Wednesday, Smartish Pace, Calyx and numerous other journals.