Perverse Pleasure

The Root of Mother is Moth
By Terese Svoboda
Issue no. 106 (Spring 1988)

At dusklight she slips
into acetate underclothing,
all rustling.
                Has she slept
all day? Or is that housedress
draped over the hassock warm? From her motion,
  one of submission, her pale arms
                 upraised, the slip sliding,
           talc issues invisibly.

Mother is faceless so far up in the dark.
Just her torso glows,
and the color around her takes on the design
of a falling leaf, grey-yellow plaid.

     From the mirror, she draws what little light
there is inside her, and sighs.
                           But she is really very young
                 and will think so later.

Now nothing can claim her.
               I am quiet, all chrysalis,
                         hidden in her closet.