Violet

    by Karen Kelsay

Husband, I want to ripen

into a woman like your mother,

one who wiggles an arm

into the nook of a son's elbow,

feet twisting obscure angles

across frosty streets, refusing a cane.

Whose only hope from tipping

over in the lane with a dizzy spell,

is not a bottle of pills, but a bag

of boiled sweets.

A stiff-upper-lip kind of lady,

who jeers at heart attacks

and broken hips, and raises hell

when trapped in a ward with old people.

One who still makes tea each

morning over the burner, even though

she catches her sleeves on fire.

A woman with no riches, but a few

baubles of costume jewelry

and collection of miniature brass

animals that glint in sun like a row

of diamonds.

© 2012  Karen Kelsay

* previously published in thick with conviction, a poetry journal

Karen Kelsay is the editor of Aldrich Press. In 2012 she was awarded the Fluvanna Prize by The Lyric, and has been nominated five times for the Pushcart Prize. Some of her poems can be found at The Hypertexts, The Raintown Review, Mezzo Cammin, The Pennsylvania Review, Grey Sparrow, and Pirene's Fountain.