No Time for Poetry Today
The floor needs sweeping but just
like the voice of my mother on the answering
machine something keeps saying
It’s me. Where are you?
A cloud of dust sparkles in the sun
and I’m distracted by a vision of
fairies playing wiffle ball
I open the screen door to air out the
house but the peppery scent of clover
takes me back to my barefoot summers
As I tidy the books on the mantel
I think of the great aunt
in Florida who decorated hers
with poison sumac because
the red berries looked so pretty
It’s time to fold the towels—do it like my
mother, in half twice, roll over one, two, three
—and then there’s that voice again
Honey, please call me
I’m getting worried.
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Ashley Memory 