Safe or Not
Afterwards, she books a bargain flight
to a city she's not been to, an old hotel
she cannot afford.
In the room: the bed, the desk, the lamp,
the doll-house mirror, floral rug, thank
god, a modern tub.
Once bordello, 208 dead-ends a narrow
hall decoupaged with boughs of ivy.
Outside pigeons moan
and old Magnolias bloom a multitude
of milky breasts, wrapped and pointy.
Brown Corona bottles lie
like boats under the tree, moored in mud
and trash, now turned glassy traps for slugs.
The window's painted shut.
She tried to see everything for what it is,
the way cities do and small towns don't.
Rain-ruined cigarettes
stub the window ledge as though some barfly
likes to creep and perch there watching women
sleep. And sleep she does,
safe or not, after room service brings a bottle
of Merlot, after she stares down the siren
song of sleeping pills
splayed on the quilt. I tell you, she hangs on
to the raw reflection of her mirrored self
coming undone and naked
as a nun out of orders, ungirdled, bony
as the barelegged heron who cried as she
flies the bay bridge.
My mother's closet
held exquisite shoes
boxed in tissue-paper -
calf, suede, alligator.
The lovely shapes
flashed animal elegance
when exposed to blue
bedroom light. Paired
like sleeping doves
you could almost hear
them coo, moved, as they
were, gently over nylon.
They breathed sometimes
through the moon-cut
open toe, or slapped
like water against a silky
heel, the sling-soft leather
strap buckling the mound
of ankle bone. Then once
a week, an early morning
opaque rustle and brush -
and my mother in a home-
made dress, slipped into her
shoes and walked to Mass.
--Jane Vincent Taylor