From What Do I Grow?

My father
I saw behind a stand
selling roses
in spheres
all plastic.

My mother
did not hold my hand,
could not still my head.
Her five year old boy
left to face his life.

Twenty years later,
I saw the sphere
with the rose
in my neighbor�s house
again.

The sphere remained impermeable.
The rose was not beautiful.
The stand was ugly.
I saw my father
in me.

I sought
not an answer,
but a story
of the faceless man
I see in my mirror.

She gave no reasons,
teary explanations
how she chose to cope
with an accident.
Me. Accidental.

My mother.
I held her hand.
I stilled her head.
Her twenty-five year old,
still a boy,
left to face his life.