Comments about Gail Mazur
I Wish I Want I Need
The black kitten cries at her bowl
meek meek and the gray one glowers
from the windowsill. My hand on the can
to serve them. First day of spring.
Yesterday I drove my little mother for hours
through wet snow. Her eightieth birthday.
What she wanted was that ride with me—
shopping, gossiping, mulling old grievances,
1930, 1958, 1970.
How cruel the world has been to her,
how uncanny she's survived it.
In her bag, a birthday card
from "my Nemesis," signed Sincerely
with love—"Why is she doing this to me?"
she demands, "She hates ...