New World

As I saw it,

all my mother’s life, my father

held her down, like

lead strapped to her ankles.

She was

buoyant by nature;

she wanted to travel,

go to theater, go to museums.

What he wanted

was to lie on the couch

with the Times

over his face,

so that death, when it came,

wouldn’t seem a significant change.

In couples like this,

where the agreement

is to do things together,

it’s always the active one

who concedes, who gives.

You can’t go to museums

with someone who won’t

open his eyes.

I thought my father’s death

would free my mother.

In a sense, it has:

she takes trips, looks at

great art. But she’s floating.

Like some child’s balloon

that gets lost the minute

it isn’t held.

Or like an astronaut

who somehow loses the ship

and has to drift in space

knowing, however long it lasts,

this is what’s left of being alive: she’s free

in that sense.

Without relation to earth.

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