When I said, to my mother, What was a good
thing about me as a child?, my mother’s
face seemed to unfurl from the center,
hibiscus in fast motion, the anthers
and flounces springing out with joy.  Oh you were
enchanting, she breathed.  What do you mean --
crazy?  No sense of reality?
No-no, she laughed, with many little notes --
half a scale, plus grace notes -- I don’t
know how to say it, you were just. . .
enchanting.  Possessed?, I asked.  Brain-damaged?
No, she smiled.  There was something about you --
the way you looked at things.  I thought I got it:
that stunned look on my face, in photos,
that dumbstruck look, gaze of someone
who doesn’t understand anything.
But a week later, I thought it had been a look
of wonder, it was bemused pleasure.
And days later, I see it -- that light
on my mother’s face -- she loved me.  And today
I hear her, she did not say enchanted.
The woman in whose thrall I was
was in my thrall.  I came into being
within her silks and masses, and after we are
gone would she caper here, my first
love, would she do me the honor of continued ensorcelling?