The bar’s TV shows a commercial with

someone like my mother

lifting blackberries in baskets,

something she has never done. I drink, watch

the waitress with kohl eyes

who conjures herself in black smoke.

My mother avoided black until her

fifties, already thin,

and liked the light reflecting up

to her tight temples that glowed a dim fire

from the bright floral

pattern draped on her thin shoulders.

She gardened in pink, shooing the bees with

green gloves like long leaves.