Hidden things.
Occult Secrets.
Like the ads in the back of astrology magazines–
promises of future power and ancient knowledge
printed on cheap newsprint
for Zolar's book of forbidden knowledge;
candles shaped like hands;
the seal of Solomon.

In the awkward time of the evening
my mother waited too long to turn on the lights
but sang quietly, between beers and Winstons,
songs of innocence and hope she had written in her youth.

Sometimes, she would unveil
the true meaning
behind the songs Dick played at the club:

Each broadway song or sequence of songs
contained messages for my mother-
sometimes a declaration of love
that would later be denied -
other times mockery.

Often my mother served poetry instead of dinner.
She was angry that her real life had been diverted,
disappearing into some parallel dimension–
a place where her creativity and wit were appreciated
and she sparkled when she spoke
like Grace Kelly in the movies.

Electroshock therapy in the fifties opened an invisible wound
that caused all the color in her system to drain away.
50 years later she was totally gray.
When she died,
I thought she was practically invisible.

That was my mistake:
I thought that just because I couldn't see her,
there was nothing there to see.

Thank you mother,
I am beginning to see the connections.

© Joe Thompson · www.imaginesongs.com

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