Leah Falk
Self Portrait as My Mother Stopping Time
Tonight I brush my hair for comfort,
to call forth my mother’s beauty
circa Napa, 1970:
sunset-backlit, hair used blond
of washed paintbrushes,
body folded
in a fabric like white paper. I pull
the bristles through. My head full
of good oils, my skin
clean, I try to shine that way –
waxed fruit, white and gold
and evening.
In the mirror, I make my mouth
shape the same secret hers looks
about to tell,
leave a ring of myself on the glass.
Her young body, then, a lens
the California twilight
passes through to become
ageless. Behind her in a pink field,
a flower grows
whose only food is stillness.
Behind me, the city’s performance,
snow’s slow applause.
Leah Falk's poems and essays have appeared in Kenyon Review, FIELD, Blackbird, The Awl and elsewhere. A graduate of the Helen Zell Writers Program at the University of Michigan, she lives in Philadelphia and runs the Writers House at Rutgers University-Camden.
Return to May 2017 Edition
Tonight I brush my hair for comfort,
to call forth my mother’s beauty
circa Napa, 1970:
sunset-backlit, hair used blond
of washed paintbrushes,
body folded
in a fabric like white paper. I pull
the bristles through. My head full
of good oils, my skin
clean, I try to shine that way –
waxed fruit, white and gold
and evening.
In the mirror, I make my mouth
shape the same secret hers looks
about to tell,
leave a ring of myself on the glass.
Her young body, then, a lens
the California twilight
passes through to become
ageless. Behind her in a pink field,
a flower grows
whose only food is stillness.
Behind me, the city’s performance,
snow’s slow applause.
Leah Falk's poems and essays have appeared in Kenyon Review, FIELD, Blackbird, The Awl and elsewhere. A graduate of the Helen Zell Writers Program at the University of Michigan, she lives in Philadelphia and runs the Writers House at Rutgers University-Camden.
Return to May 2017 Edition