Betsy Martin


I remember my mother, every afternoon
would either be reading or cooking.
She would pick up a book quickly,
like a snack,
and sit at the end of the sofa.

Honeyed sunlight flows in
over her right shoulder.
A subtle smile simmers.

Then in the kitchen
she hums to herself
and feels the knotty, pitted skin
of a potato,
tenderly pats
a lettuce leaf dry
with a faraway look.
She chops onions
and their stories
bring tears to her eyes.

Atlanta Review Spring/Summer 2016