The Poetry of Karla Huston | ||
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WHISTLING MOTHER | ||
My mother whistles under her breath,
all day, all the time. Not the sweet song birds make but a toothy melody, a skipped record, her lips pursed to a point. She does this leaning over the sink to peel potatoes, spooning coffee into the basket, clearing the table. She whistles in the car when she's not sighing or sorting through tissues and bottles full of pills. She does it while watching TV, paging through magazines, maybe even while she sleeps. The tune is always the same, al dente half song, a few notes rising and falling. I wonder how my father can stand it. Maybe he's just tuned her out, after all those years of chucking nickels into the jukebox of her mouth. My own daughter tells me I do the same thing, and I admit it, catch myself sometimes--lips puckered, teeth set, the air adjusting its wings, hoping the birds are waiting, their ears cocked just so. |
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Previously published in Illya's Honey and the chapbook: Flight Patterns, winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest, 2003.
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