Mothers Day, 1958

she waited until May to wear her pride
the linen suit with the pleats that fanned
against the prize,
the late-life child, the one to change the world

the daughters had given her the candy before church;
the flowers that she wore were pink, because
her mother was alive

the scent of starch, and the perfume
he’d bought at Christmas, the kind she’d
worn when they were young

her alto pushed against the notes
of hymns she sang without the book,
her voice bright with certainty

in September driving home
from the little cemetery, she said
I was a fool to be so happy