No Gift Ever Loved Me More
In Anchorage mother stepped out of a Wien Air Alaska jet
into the terminal where I sat alone with my baby
watching me, she saw herself
she longed to turn backward past the splintered shards of betrayal
to sing to us her old songs, and never be lonely
we would live in that lovely white house with the picket fence,
the one she could never afford to buy
I peer through the years, see her ironing,
hear her singing, watch her jitterbugging,
to Glenn Miller, kicking the blues.
I see her brunette curls
bent over the Singer,
sewing all night
we play in the snow on my birthday
under my coat I hug the yellow cotton shirt
stitched in tears.
she wished her gift could be more that day,
more than a simple homemade shirt.
No way. No gift ever loved me more.
