Pike's Peak
Andrea Spofford

There was the week my mother drove from Texas to Colorado
with her parents, her sister on the jump seat in the back of the station wagon
the secret seat without belts
the trunk itself bountied full of sunflowers my child mother picked roadside
wrought with ants that crept from the petals but how could she know?
She never saw them.

When they got to Pike’s Peak her mother swam the lake
in a swimsuit pink and faded, hair slicked back against her head
face washed free
and eyelashed invisible blonde and newborn.

Small waves splashed on the stones as she climbed from the water
towels quickly in her hands, on her children, and sometimes my mother remembers
how later she wanted to see her, the woman from the water
again just dripped, just bright, just blurred in the sun
so fresh and vibrantly rendered.

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