Mock Orange<\/p>\n
My mother comes in the front door.
\nThat smell is too much<\/i>, she says, nodding
\ntoward the mock orange.
\nThose little white flowers are pretty,
\nbut the bush smells too ripe, don’t you think?
\nMaybe you should cut it back.
\nIt smells like those locust trees in New York
\nnear the hospital-so sweet
\nthey’d take over your senses, cross the line.<\/i><\/p>\n
I tell her I dreamed of Jeff last night.
\nI don’t like to think about dreams.
\nI push them away, try to forget everything bad
\nlike when Jeff insisted on telling me about…you know.<\/i>
\nShe looks out the window.
\nI told him I knew but didn’t want to know.
\nI didn’t want my friends to feel sorry for me.
\nI went to the beauty shop when he was sick.
\nand played bridge with my ladies.
\nAnd honey, when you write poems about him,
\nyou don’t say what he died of, do you?<\/i><\/p>\n
Linda Goodman Robiner<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Mock Orange My mother comes in the front door. That smell is too much, she says, nodding toward the mock orange. Those little white flowers are pretty, but the bush smells too ripe, don’t you think? Maybe you should cut … Continue reading