השיר

Kitchen Table, Ten P.M.

After the dishes, my mother opens

a notebook with a cat on the cover,

the one I used in second grade,

and sits where the light is best.

She writes the letters slowly,

her tongue between her teeth,

as if each one were a small bird

that might fly off the page.

At forty-six she reads a word aloud

the way I read at six:

too loud, too careful,

proud of every sound.

At the bank, at the clinic,

I have been her voice for years.

I answered for her, I translated her,

I made her small without meaning to.

Tonight she reads me a sentence,

one whole sentence, right to left,

and I close my mouth

and let her speak.