I feel like talking to my mother, looking into her green eyes,
feeling her taste for elegance like some brocaded material
between my fingers, seeing the jutting of her jaw, the broken line of her
nose, those high cheekbones, carefully powdered pockmarked skin,
Soft sympathetic gaze, tasting her humor–the irony, blackness,
sophistication, faux-pas–awed by the mélange of her personality:
Stubborn Jewess and woman of the world, shy, fawn-like creature
in her youth and mid-years, blossoming into a southern belle in old age.
A Tennessee Williams woman. A lover of Faulkner, the rabbi said
at her funeral. She also admired Arthur Miller, studied French
and creative writing, played the violin, passionately if poorly.
As a girl, she had wanted to study law, but it wasn’t considered
acceptable for a woman. Oh, how I feel like talking to her
and looking into the world of those green eyes.