August 2024
Marilyn Gove
poetess.gove2@gmail.com
Bio Note: My mother, Milly, was gregarious, creative and a gourmet cook. She had nothing in common with my father who was 20 years her senior. He lived in silence. She lived to party. Alcohol was her salve. When her life ended, she offered only her love. For that, I am grateful.

Remembering My Mother
for Mildred Fay Lurie Gove
1926-1988

We sit Shiva. Forks scrape plates clean of kugel, 
chopped liver, roast chicken and teiglach.

I share a memory. 
What a kibitzer my mother was;
A pack of Raleigh’s in one hand,
A whiskey sour in the other.
She didn’t frighten easy!

Don’t know why she hitched herself
To an older, balding man 
With regrettable hygiene. 
She did as expected,
Had three children, chained herself to an apron,
A Betty Crocker housewife. 
Told herself she didn’t have a choice.

I think she is happier in death, 
Happier than she was in life. I imagine 
Dying gave her wings 
New worlds to explore…
Untethered, 
Wishing she had taken 
Her stilettos and Mr. Jack Daniels.

One night she came in a dream
Holding a red rose
Her smile broad and happy.
I reached for the rose
My arm stretched upwards,
Just before first light broke
And her loving presence
Vanished.

©2024 Marilyn Gove
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