Lola
by Drew Pisarra
At some point in his or her life every poet has to write a poem about Mother. Not because he’s angry. Not because she’s sentimental. But because mothers, more than fathers, nudge us down paths of respectability. They grin and cajole then wax judgmental so that 40 years later we stand in the middle of a life we half-picked, suddenly stunned that we only resisted halfway. My mom once caught me masturbating, then shut the door and asked if I wanted pancakes. I locked eyes with my mom while simulating sex onstage in a nightclub in Baltimore. In neither case was she shocked. At most she was curious. “Who is this stranger?” Her pursed mouth seemed to say. I sometimes wonder if she ever recounts either incident to her neighbor, a former co-worker who takes care of Lola, my mother’s dog, whenever mom’s away. Does my mom ever experience a flashback while down on all fours and scrubbing random linoleum? Does she think that I’ve outgrown her? Did I ever grow up at all?
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