Portrait of a Mother

She sits on an old wooden bridge
the water blurry, the edges sepia.
A carefree breeze musses her curls.
She leans back against the rail
her jacket buttoned tight,
her ankles crossed, smiling
as if she can prevent the fall.
Her son does not remember her

this way, happy or young. He knows
only the cruelty, the riot in her head,
the fragile fissures of her sanity
wisps of white that came undone.
He scatters her freckles across
the possibility in his daughter's face.
(11-27-06)