When The Mother Wakes Up
“When the mother wakes up, your people will be held accountable.”
The man staring at me took off his glove and shook my hand.
We stood outside the Albertsons
where they had denied him a liquor sale.
It was cold.
“I don’t have any papers. They think I’m an illegal from Mexico.”
His face was old but not wise.
His beanie hid his long, salt and pepper hair.
He did not smile.
He was talking around what he really wanted.
“But I’m really a Sioux Indian from Canada.”
He wanted to tell me a story, and yet
he needed money.
“When the mother wakes up – what I really want to say is
Can you help me out?”
I gave him two bucks.
I couldn’t read his face at first.
Two bucks could only feed a ghost.
And then he smiled.
“Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”
He shook my hand again. He held it longer this time.
“When the mother wakes up. . .”
His words trailed off.
I was waiting for his prophecy.
I was waiting for my two dollar fortune.
“That is not for you, my friend. That is not for you.”
You take care, I told him.
I walked away.
“When the mother wakes up,” he repeated.
There were other words I couldn’t hear.
He added my dollars to his collection of change
And made footsteps into the supermarket.
As I lit a cigarette,
I considered the possibility
that the mother was already
awake.
By Craig Boehman, from Wolf Gin Sonnets, 2009
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