In the perfect nonchalance
fed by robust youth
I thought them mere oddities
picture frames
crookedly off kilter
but benign—
women floating in the background
not worthy of my attention
as I did what they couldn’t.

Now their images flit
through my mind often enough
to have significance.

My Italian boyfriend’s mother
seduced me with real spaghetti
and meatballs, a recipe passed down
and kept secret—
hot tea with honey,
a golden liquid exotic and magical—
all prepared with downcast eyes
held in by the constraints
of the ever-present apron.

She disappeared after meals
as if her silly conversation
would not be tolerated.
She pretended not to know
what went on upstairs
when I visited.
I heard she went mad.

Once I flew to Kansas City
during Easter vacation
to see my Adrienne Messenger
who wrote to me on waxed paper
rolled it up in its slender box.

His mother was already around the bend.
She moved through the town house
in a dingy house dress
decorated with a dried bloodstain
on the back.
She never spoke to me.

What could she have said
to the young girl
who took off her clothes
in the tumescent sun of April
and lay with her youngest
a budding artist
at the Kansas City Art Institute.

The signs were all there
but arrogance and blind youth
protected me.

I don’t own an apron
and I’ve postponed madness
but I visit my son
on Mondays and Fridays.
 

We speak through glass
and I cry when I’m alone.

                         —Katherine McLeod Searle
                           22 & 25 August 2008
                           Photos by Searle

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