There was flute music playing, red apples in the apple tree.
There was fog over the woods slapping my mind around
My feet were so pale against the uncovered, wooden
Dining room floor, shining brilliance, where a rug
Overlaid for so long, where years of dinner parties and guests
Sipping martinis would stand and regard our floral land.
How do the hydrangea stay upright? I know my mother
Doesn’t care for them anymore. Oh, I’ve heard this one before—
Soft, round notes with spaces to wallow in between:
Country music for people who live in beautiful country.
A jazzy love song bows in, “Champagne glasses,
And your beautiful eyes.” A six-CD rotation. They
Like music like this, background noise with positive tones.
I have my mother’s hands. I have my mother’s feet long,
Skinny fingers and toes. We have freckled skin. French bones.