Molly Gaudry
Molly Gaudry runs Willows Wept Press, edits Willows Wept Review, co-edits Twelve Stories, and is an associate editor for
Keyhole Magazine. Find her online at http://mollygaudry.blogspot.com.
Keyhole Magazine. Find her online at http://mollygaudry.blogspot.com.
Milk Butter and Rose Petal Lip Balm
Dab ladylike your lips.
Remove your elbows
from the dinner table.
Cross not knees but ankles.
Do not speak until spoken to.
A child is better seen than heard.
Child, forget your mother's words.
She is your past as I am your past, but
I know your secret. It was mine, too.
There was no trip to the market for roses.
Do not deceive yourself. Do not fabricate
new truths. Lies, even little white,
will bring you nothing but trouble.
I know.
For years I told myself there was
nothing wrong with your mother.
She was normal. I waited. I watched
the way you did the butter, but where bubbles
appeared to you I passed those years in vain.
She became a woman, yes, but not like us.
Did the Colombian enjoy your meal?
It was my mother's recipe.
Pears were all the rage back then,
but she pureed by hand and cooled
by other means. Our secret began with her.
She gave it with me. I'd hoped to share it
with your mother but it never came to pass.
Child, it skipped to you.
Have you been lonely? Did you wonder
why this thing? What to call it?
If only I had been there for you.
If only I could have explained. But too old
for roses I cracked up and it wasn't that kind
of assisted living, if you know what I mean.
I'm sorry I wasn't all there.
You must have been so lonely.
Child, let me help.
You must know
that you are dreaming.
This is how I will tell you.
Too little too late?
Dab ladylike your lips.
Remove your elbows
from the dinner table.
Cross not knees but ankles.
Do not speak until spoken to.
A child is better seen than heard.
Child, forget your mother's words.
She is your past as I am your past, but
I know your secret. It was mine, too.
There was no trip to the market for roses.
Do not deceive yourself. Do not fabricate
new truths. Lies, even little white,
will bring you nothing but trouble.
I know.
For years I told myself there was
nothing wrong with your mother.
She was normal. I waited. I watched
the way you did the butter, but where bubbles
appeared to you I passed those years in vain.
She became a woman, yes, but not like us.
Did the Colombian enjoy your meal?
It was my mother's recipe.
Pears were all the rage back then,
but she pureed by hand and cooled
by other means. Our secret began with her.
She gave it with me. I'd hoped to share it
with your mother but it never came to pass.
Child, it skipped to you.
Have you been lonely? Did you wonder
why this thing? What to call it?
If only I had been there for you.
If only I could have explained. But too old
for roses I cracked up and it wasn't that kind
of assisted living, if you know what I mean.
I'm sorry I wasn't all there.
You must have been so lonely.
Child, let me help.
You must know
that you are dreaming.
This is how I will tell you.
Too little too late?
