The Enchantment
When I said, to my mother, What was a goodthing about me as a child?, my mother’sface seemed to unfurl from the center,hibiscus in fast motion, the anthersand flounces springing out with joy. Oh you wereenchanting, she breathed. What do you mean—crazy? No sense of reality?No-no, she laughed, with many little notes—half a scale, plus grace notes—I don’tknow how to say it, you were just …enchanting. Possessed?, I asked. Brain-damaged?No, she smiled. There was something about you—the way you looked at things. I thought I got it:that stunned look on my face, in photos,that dumbstruck look, gaze of someonewho doesn’t understand anything.But a week later, I thought it had beena look of wonder, it was bemused pleasure.And days later, I see it—that lighton my mother’s face—she loved me. And…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2018