The barís TV shows a commercial with
someone like my mother
lifting blackberries in baskets,
something she has never done. I drink, watch
the waitress with kohl eyes
who conjures herself in black smoke.
My mother avoided black until her
fifties, already thin,
and liked the light reflecting up
to her tight temples that glowed a dim fire
from the bright floral
pattern draped on her thin shoulders.
She gardened in pink, shooing the bees with
green gloves like long leaves.
fiction poetry "fact" photography