It’s that song that makes her
close her eyes and nod her head,
music sending her back to a time
before she had you, reverie
back to that tight-waist hip-hugger
pants time, that barrettes
and bobby soxer time, that
doo wop and shang-a-lang time.
It’s that song that comes
back for her when her last
good nerve has frayed like her
house’s bad wiring, a tune
she hums elbows deep in all
the muck your family accumulates—
compost or wet clothes,
leaf rot or bathroom mold—
making her wistful from platforms
and rhinestones, glitter balls
and halter tops. My mother’s
favorite song was Johnny
Nash’s “ I Can See Clearly Now,”
lilting reggae tune she sang
softly whenever it came
on the transistor radio
that sat on our dining room
table, airwaves usually reserved
for my father’s classical station.
She could sway to that song
as if my father’s swift flicks
of anger didn’t exist,
his temper not a flint
any one of us could spark.
She could step from the stove
sing look straight ahead,
there’s nothing but blue skies
as if she were back in Jamaica—
no one’s mother, no one’s cook,
those skies hers alone,
body no one’s treasure
but her own, sunlight
radiating down on her skin until
every limb and finger grew warm.