I Packed My Mother Away Like Winter

I bring you out of the wardrobe dressed in Astrakhan,
foetal curls of black wool that never breathed.
I stroke and stroke and bury my face in your warmth.
Feeling you yield, I lift the heavy collar until it covers
my ears and half my face.
I’m breathing
Soir de Paris, Max Factor, and something else
I try to remember.
I want to say, Mother, I’m sorry
your life wasn’t an astrakhan coat.
You needed the accessories—
a purse stuffed with five-pound notes, perfume
from Chanel, an heirloom rope of pearls
evenly matched. You had slim ankles, shining hair,
a necklace studded with blue glass beads,
a golden wedding ring worn thin and five children.