I spent some time with my mother a few weeks ago and was reminded of what a lovely and generous person she is. This poem is for her:
That Tangerine Bikini
Today I’m thinking about that bikini—tangerine
with gold clasps connecting lined cups and
panties—the one you surprised me with
my thirteenth summer, a distraction I guess
when we moved East, like the trip
to Twin Falls for trail hikes, pancake
tacos, and that bikini floating in the
lodge pool after a dive. You used
to shop like that—buying clothes and
gifts on the sly—not believing my
“nothing” when you asked me what I
wanted, even when I cut off the
Chrissy doll’s long red hair and stole
a brother’s Legos and skis.
That was
when there still were Sears catalogues, five
circles for Christmas, question marks for school—
will you sew Butterick or get ready-to-wear?—
but shopping for shoes together, trying them
on side by side. And that orange
bikini—I wore it nearly a half
century ago. The first hand had not
yet sweltered in mine
and you
delivered
the towel.
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