Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day

I keep calling and all I get

is an answering machine.

She’s eighty-nine and someone

has had the bright idea of getting her

an answering machine.

She probably doesn’t know

how to use it. Or maybe she can’t remember

to call back. She might have forgotten

where she put my phone number.

Anything could have happened at her age,

and I am furious, no livid, and full of anxiety.

I remember the birthday party

she had for me when I was seven.

The toys were all bigger than me.

The cake was a carousel, a huge carousel

with big beautiful horses. No one in town

had ever seen anything like it. Now I fail

to be grateful on mother’s day.

How can I forgive myself?