Ungently
My mother passed at forty-one
nearly half of a century ago—
a typical thought a son might have
|turning sixty-eight, the way a date
can trigger any number of thoughts
to cross your mind: her laugh
letting you know it was a good night,
how silent she put on a brave face
in front of the canaries she raised,
sunlight shaking through the window
like the nervous whistle of not having
long, and though she did sing along
to the Four Seasons and Neil Diamond
on days with reasons to get lost
|in a chorus, all I remember is her
buying the first album by Aerosmith
but only listening to “Dream On,”
the quiet way it opened to let her in,
how she set the volume loud
enough for the living room to fill
with the part where she and the singer
started screaming at the end.
by Charles Carr
from Rattle #89, Fall 2025
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