mother

At her insistence, I booked my mother the earliest flight out to attend my fifth reading in Boston, and ever.  She wore the usual, ironic black.  My mother is a simple woman but feels nothing for distaste; I count always on the fairness of her face.  The reading was to take place at the same coffee shop in which I had spent my last four readings and the preceding years of self-excavation.  It was the only one of its kind within walking distance; it seemed, people didn’t care too much about the poem there.  When we arrived, she situated in the back corner and ordered a teapot and she would remain there with it until we left.  

Shortly after we had sit ourselves, the first poet of the night walked up to the podium and cleared his throat.  I had seen him around but wasn’t familiar with him.  He read four or five moderately good poems, one of which seemed to outline a dwarf fascination.  Though not entirely out of character, my dear mother was not offended and continued sipping her tea.  I was to step up there soon and show her with great confidence why I had chased the need to create.  

The first poet thanked his crowd and graciously stepped down.  People groaned and stretched during the intermission, preparing for the next existential barrage of Cartesian circles and life-sized diagrams on foam-board.  I was prepared to give them what they wanted.  All I needed was their eyes and ears and those little hairs on the backs of their necks.  

I looked at my mother through the artificial clouds and asked her what she thought of his style.  She said she felt as if she had once, on some level, heard the same sorts of things come out of my father.  But he was no writer, nor much of a father.  I sipped hurriedly at the tea to distract from the itch she’d stirred and burned the tip of my tongue.  After that I decided to shut my mouth and stared towards the stage.  Most everyone had gone outside to smoke but a few people still lingered.

Mother leaned in close to me and pointed out, in as few words possible, the remarkable beauty of a woman still sitting near the stage.  The woman hadn’t come with anyone and looked around as if searching.  I said nothing about it.  She asked me why didn’t I go over and talk to her.  I told her that we were already friends.  She mentioned again how lovely she looked.  Then she suggested that I ask her out.  I told her I had.  She asked what I planned to do and I said I didn’t know.  She’s so beautiful.  I said I knew it—this happened twice.  By that time the smokers started filing back in.  My mother’s eyes were about the stage.  Mine wavered somewhere around there or the tabletop, but were looking into some ether between.  You know, you should marry her.  I picked up my poems and lukewarm tea and walked to the stage.  

I got up there feeling drunk off nerves.  The crowd was full of nicotine and eagerly waiting to devour me.  They were growling and grinding in their seats.  I shuffled my very important pages.  I glanced at her over the heads in the front row.  She was fixed on the first poet, standing stage side.  I diverted and keep down after that.  I had fifteen minutes.  I took a sip.  The tea slid down the back of my throat; it felt good.  My tongue was a blister but still sharp, and it would put an end to my lonely nights in Boston.