The Translucent Mother by Lara Payne

The Translucent Mother

That night I thought you were dead I didn’t think once about your ghost, or worry you would haunt me. Of all I did not do for you. Of all you did not do for me. The police used the photo I gave them, found you bloody toed and confused. The next day you told me you don’t know how you wandered for 12 hours, never once asking for help. Am I kind to strangers because of you and your illness? Your ease of disappearance. I suckled 6 weeks, you told me once, so you knew you’d never get cancer. I’m used to your magical thinking, and barely argued. To what point? Perhaps I don’t need to imagine your ghost, as your presence has always been a bit translucent. Easily blown by any wind. Your voice changing cadence with each new friend or love. Chameleon. My first love, my first loss. The person I try every day to both love and be nothing like. Mother, half gone. Mother disappeared.

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Lara Payne lives in Maryland. Once an archeologist, she now teaches writing at the college level, to veterans, and to small children. Her poems, many of which explore the Chesapeake environment and people, have appeared in a museum, on buses, and in print and online journals. Recent poems have appeared in Gargoyle and online with SWWIM Daily.