My Mother is a Fish

The sofa is cradling my mother.
My mother’s old kimono cradles me:
Cherry blossoms floating in satin bath,
Water I can drape about my shoulders.

My mother’s old kimono cradles me
so that I can become a fish, wet with
water I can drape about my shoulders.
Soon, the sleeves will fit my arms

So that I can become a fish, wet with
the black mud of our flooded cellars.
I can dress forever in silken things—
all I need while she is sleeping.

The black mud of our flooded cellars
puddles in the hollows of her face.
All I need while she is sleeping—
Fabric that smells of her cigarettes.

Puddles in the hollows of her face,
Cherry blossoms floating in a satin bath,
Fabric that smells of her cigarettes—
The sofa is cradling my mother.