In her peignoir with Belgian lace, ragged

and torn at the hem, Mother sits alone

in our back yard. Hair caught in her woven

rattan chair, she stares at her crescent-shaped

garden and points where I must shovel

to plant her favorite roses: Etoile

de Holland, dark, crimson and thorny;

Cecil Bruner, pale yellow, fragrant,

thickly petaled. Mother sips Darjeeling,

wipes tea leaves and sweat from her lips,

bites melba toast. She rarely moves or speaks.

I change into my swimsuit, walk barefoot

in the heat over the tar-bubbling road

to the public pool, buy candy for lunch.

In the sun, I lie down on cement,

skin drying and cracked. My mildewed

braids, seldom washed or combed, begin

to smell. Walking to the deep end,

I dive in, hold my breath, and explode

just under the surface, as if I could break

through, darkly fragrant, with a gasp for air.