Ann Hutton

My mother wore pants
and smoked Kools.

In every photo her gaze is distant, wondering.
She worked for a living but had no life—two husbands,
five children, minimum wage, scant respect.

She did have friends like herself, independent-minded
girls with no acknowledgment of their strength
or beauty.

My mother wore pain
and injected morphine.

In every photo her gaze is distant, thinking.
She paid the bills but had no power—two husbands,
five children, minimum wage, scant respect.

She did have humor, dry and lost on respectable
folks, cryptic-coded letters in comic language for sisters,
no audience laughing.

My mother wore falsies
and rubbed her arms with Noxema.

In every photo her gaze is distant, dreaming.
She smelled like Desert Flower but had no lover—two husbands,
five children, minimum wage, scant respect.

She did have me, thin and afraid, too needy for her
marginal resources in times of ill health, frail testament
to her motherhood.

My mother wore down
and gave in to death.

In every photo her gaze is distant, knowing.
She lived for awhile but had no satisfaction—two husbands,
five children, minimum wage, scant respect.

She did love life, lean and edgy situations
giving way to waves of hopelessness, unfinished victim
that she turned out to be.