seasons (department of rising)

Inside the store of my mind’s department,
my mother mounts a moving stair, providing views at every level
as I ride the escalating up and down.

There are too many stories to count.
At first, I think the years are stories,
but then I think seasons.

Moments of backlogged memory.
Featured recollections. An endcap
of attentions to retale.

My hand opens. My hand closes.
I give away legal. I give away tender.
I shop with her ghost.

She is well turned out for a ghost.
I am drawn to the details she is drawn to.
She likes the color of dizzy

sunshine. I think of bees.
I think of honey.
She likes shiny buckles.

Air circulates in the honeycombed
freestanding. She taught me how
to read the fanning.

We shop for reconsideration —
who I might yet become. She pulls my belt tighter.
I am not wearing a belt.

She no longer carries a handbag
stuffed with emergency.
She keeps gesturing to the stairs

ascending and descending.
She hums the whir, keeping time with the blades,
smiling the slight gap in her teeth.

The memories call to her,
each aisle leading back to the escalating stairs.
We walk on flowery blossoms.

Giddy sun deepens
the shadows. Chrysanthemums the color of
blood and honey. Solstice of space

between stories, between notes.
She fingers gold and crimson. Stairs are always
going somewhere. She waves hello, goodbye.

She poses her body until it glows,
searching for what she re-imagines for me.
That is, a place of plenty.