watterson

proud place

My mother's proud place
is in Shanghai, on top of the five-story
apartment complex with the dusty bathtubs
and wonky banister railing.

I try to picture her as a teenager,
with sunset flashing through her hair,
walking sure-footed on roof ledges.
The rest of the neighborhood spilling
like moonlight beneath her.
She is coming up here to feel bigger.
This rooftop is her castle. She is the wistful,
young princess, and the only things greater
than her empire are her dreams.
She keeps them up there,
so the wind can whisper away her doubts.

The city has grown without her.
She says her building was the tallest,
you could see the horizon curl like a limitation
to test. And one day she would punch through
it on board a jet plane, her ticket the only cold, hard
cash she possessed.

I watch her as she stands in her proud place.
The new buildings across the street
are twice as tall. They've torn down
the old neighborhood into bricks of rubble,
and her proud place is weary, too. It sags
with the weight of old dreams; its ledges
still wait for a permanent return.  

---
apr 26, 2017
my mom said i'd never write about her until she's dead, so what do you have to say about that, mom? you've got two whole poems!