Today's poem is by Kathy Nelson

I Never Thought My Mother
        —after Jack Gilbert

would slip back in after she died.
        How astonishing that she's arrived

                as a copperhead living under the porch.
        I stand on the edge and scan the yard.

Mostly, I do not see her. But
        in August, nearing birthing, she eases

                onto the asphalt to let the sun
        soothe the cold from her scales. She coils

about the drain spout or stretches
        along the driveway's grass fringe.

                I know she is my mother because
        her slow unspooling beguiles me. I know

her because I can't take my eyes off her.
        I watch with that same stitch at my sternum—

                if I clear my mind of fear, we might
        reconcile. I suppress my need for her

embrace. I imagine I am not the one
        that needs escaping. At any moment,

                her languid looping patterns could break
        into lightning. My husband unlocks

the gun safe, warms up on a paper target.
        She cares nothing about death.

                She will return, one life to the next,
        until I no longer need her.

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Copyright © 2023 Kathy Nelson All rights reserved
from The Ledger of Mistakes
Terrapin Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission