“Mother With Her Young Daughter,” oil on panel, by Gustave Léonard de Jonghe, 1865.
1.
A friend tells me about her flight last week:
She watched a grown daughter fall asleep—
head on a mother’s shoulder,
mother’s cheek on her head—like puzzle pieces.
As if grabbing my lapel, my friend implores,
How does this closeness happen?
My daughter and I have PhDs, but we don’t have this,
nor did my mother and I.
I want to mark a route and hand her the map.
But it’s a map—instinct I can’t explain—
mothers pass on to daughters. Blue lines, sinew, heart.
I begin to write. Stories I can’t share with my friend.
2.
My 75-year-old mother and I carry armloads
into Macy’s dressing room.
She wears new black pants—lint-covered hem to knee.
Eyeing the mirror, says
Gee, I thought I bought pants not a vacuum cleaner.
We laugh and can’t stop, tears dripping.
We retell the story often among sisters and daughters.
3.
Singapore: My daughter and I lie on her bed.
I arrived last night, a 33-hour flight. Eyes barely open,
we enjoy the myna bird’s many songs before city noise thrums.
Something reminds us of the vacuum cleaner pants,
and we laugh. She rolls over, hugs me
I’m glad you’re here, Momma.
Let’s have tea. I bought you gluten-free muffins
and a mango that just now gives to the touch.
Karen Paul Holmes won the 2023 Lascaux Prize in Poetry and received a special mention in the 2024 Pushcart Prize Anthology. Her books are No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin Books) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich Press). Poetry credits include The Writer’s Almanac, The Slowdown, Verse Daily, Diode Poetry Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and Plume. She has an MA in Music History, has had leadership roles in Corporate America and is also a freelance writer who leads writing workshops at various venues and conferences.
