Pulling Weeds

I turn to you, Mother, as if I never knew you,

as if you never caressed my hair when I lay in your bed,
coughing, sweating out my fevers on your sheets,
as if you never taught me to scramble eggs,

to separate colors from whites before laundering,
scour grease-crusted pans or pull primroses and other weeds

from rose beds,
to change first safety-pinned cloth diapers,

then plastic disposables on your youngest daughter,

as if I never became, under your hands, the perfect little mother.

To sing of mothers, I must forget how I squeezed next to you on the piano bench,
how I looked for your signal when you stood before the music stand 

so I'd know when to breathe, when to sing, when to be silent,
how we crowded before the organ,

how I searched for your nod to turn the page 

trying to anticipate you, 

needing to follow the score, 

to know how your hands intercepted the notes so I wouldn't fall behind

and disappoint you.

When I was thirteen I saw you at the table reading,
books spread around you, some open, some closed.
You were frowning as you concentrated.
I must remember that moment.

Myths fail you, Mother. I don't sing. I kneel beside you:

yanking at weeds, listening in the quiet

between Speck's barks to you breathe,

hum, curse the weeds, seeing that you

are grateful for my hands,
as earth-stained and strong as yours,
the way I can pull up the invading roots that even you miss.

 

I wrote this poem as an ode to fulfill an assignment for Forms class in college. It was not quite an ode then and I've since revised it to be the poem it wanted to be, not the ode I tried to make it. I think. Any comments are appreciated. Any punctuation suggestions are appreciated.