Why I Can’t Take My Mother Out to Dinner
She’s got a flat tire. She’s got a dead battery. She thought by now I would have wondered why she hadn’t shown up, been worried. I failed to tell her we would be eating in a food court. She expected a server. She wants to know what it means to be grass finished. How could she have known that she needed to order cheese. She doesn’t think the meat is well-done enough. There’s too much salt in my soup. My daughter’s hair has too many tangles. She doesn’t get why I never check on her. She asks why I never like any of her posts. Why nothing can be shared to my wall.
Why I Can’t Dream about My Mother
When falling endlessly through the core of myself I remember sometimes that I used to love my mother and haven’t called her. Truthfully, I’m scared she’ll be switched-handed in her big plush chair waiting on the phone to shake with need. The lash of accusation: how like your father you’ve become in your silence.
Christopher McCurry's poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and featured on NPR’s On Point as a Best Book of 2016 for his chapbook of marriage sonnets Nearly Perfect Photograph. A graduate of the Bread Loaf School of English at Middlebury College and a high school English teacher, he co-founded Workhorse, a publishing company and community for working writers. He believes everyone should write poems and that everyone can. You can find him online at christophermccurry.com or workhorsewriters.com