Carla Carlson

AT 50

Mommy is done. Children disperse to fields
and oceans, desires and come-what-may.

Husband, off on business—
Do I exist in anyone’s head, as rose, statue, kitten—

I get on a slow train,
a woman who’s played her best part, departing, drained.

Ears, eyes, shy in a world I’ve been detached
from, ignored. When I stumble to the platform,

Dad takes my bag, says my name. Hi, a hug.
I climb in the back. Déjà vu subsumes the space.

Like clay, I wait for a pinch. You look good
in pink Mom says. Adore your hair. I could be six.

Can’t whine or provoke, or show off any more
than I can preen a topic for the drive home.

They’ve become water-colorists, bridge players, floraphiles,
make jokes about the newest collie. I stare into aubergine

butter, bird’s egg rooms. My body shipped in,
wrapped in plaster. None of us knows how long I’ll stay.

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