A Son Wonders About His Mother

Hidden beneath Nigella Watson,

Jill Churchill, Gardening A-Z, books

Dad will never touch, my mother

hides her scrapbook. Strange to see

earlobes, the tips of fingers, pieces of photos

she can't bring herself to throw

away. She pastes pelvises

on paper, next to noses, candids

of collarbones, none of them complete. Fragments

of a man I can't picture. There are shots of ankles,

cheek bones, salt and pepper hair too thin

to be my father's. Downtown, I inspect

passerbys, check the curved knuckles

that grip the railings on bus number six, the shape of mouths

ogling the Chinese food buffet at Foo Hong's. Try to match

them to the snapshots, comply a list of men

who could be the one my mother keeps

tucked away under under Watson, Churchill, roses, ferns.