Last night I paced in a colonial mansion,
the wood floors echoing vacantly.
Of course, my parents were there,
though it wasn’t clear who was in power.
Then in another country I was in bed,
someone was holding out a map,
like a fancy flag or a decorated cake.
Probably it held the answers to all my questions.
But I woke to a messy kitchen and no coffee.
My husband went out for it.
My daughter called; she says she’s Nicaragua,
going forward despite obstacles. I’d go
for Haiti, I said, now that Duvalier’s gone.
Mom, I have my reasons, she said.
My parents are coming, I’ll have to make dinner,
though I’ll be inscrutable as the cake.
You would think you could tell your parents
who you are after forty years, two grown children,
and a fortune in psychotherapy. But they come to visit,
upholstered in their assumptions, drab raincoats
that last forever, and what do you do?
Serve the blandest food you can
and sit it out irritably. What if you said,
Look, I have sex at night.
Instead I dwindle on the couch, muttering dumb responses.
They get bigger and bigger.
My father resembles Captain Hook,
my mother a sad, Victorian Mrs. Grimsby.
I can’t wait to get back into bed,
and holding on to my husband’s warm ribs,
drop back into the dark underground.
Ingrid Hughes
