Awkwardness
by Arthur McMaster
Our mother, who may or may not
be in heaven, the last time I saw you
your eyeglasses were gone.
No one thought to ask who took them.
Your dress was pretty. Your rings
had already been spoken for.
From 5 to 7 p.m., people trooped
in and out of the sheeted room
nodding their heads knowingly,
ambling by to shake my hand,
mumbling the nonsense that must be said,
eager to get back to their warm cars―
their duty done―
their faces long and straight as rulers.
Now and again, I’d looked over at you,
lying stone still
in your fine mahogany vestments,
your folded hands giving away
no ineffable secrets of your own.
Gone at last was so much weakness,
erased, the years of awkward palsies,
the quell of distance erased,
as if the white silk that held you
had been pulled from endless strands
of obligation, promises,
from years of fabrication and excuses,
including the one of how, someday,
you’d not say goodbye, only would you let go.
Poet, playwright, and novelist Arthur McMaster’s work has been featured in such literary journals as North American Review, Poet Lore, Rattle, Rhino, Poetry East and South Carolina Review. He teaches in the Continuing Education program at Furman University. His third and most recent poetry book is The Whole Picture Show.
