Movies of the Mind
My mother always had a front row seat
in fact the only seat, within the theatre
in her Mind. Sat for silent hours watching
reels of stolen time and all the yesterdays
she had to leave behind.
Within her Mind the theft of youth on film, a time
when girls could touch the skirt of dreams
and look for love, boys could touch the skirt of girls
and look for dreams. When it was still fun
to skip rope at seventeen. She felt once more
upon the private screen the taste of rain,
so sweet upon the tongue and strawberries
tasted like strawberries should.
I know she watched each frame a thousand times
could freeze each moment at her will.
In every town one day the boots of war,
the thieves of time kicked down the doors
kicked dreams downstairs kicked
all the sweetness from the rain.
Strawberries will never taste the same again.
My mother sat for silent hours
watched the reels unwind, rewind and play again,
as others sit someplace alone
from dingy rooms to penthouse tops
from cells to crowded wards watching
watching all the scars of hurt, and a child.