My mother’s green voice
radiates elegance and splendor.

Even when she must live frugally, laughs
larkspur, If you don’t leave the house, you spend less.

When I was a child her voice frightened me
as if alive with a shark’s radiant power—

My mother’s voice sings citrus—
of orange joie de vivre—

that is the voice I depended on
as a teen to lift me from depression.

Suicide is a waste of time, she’d say,
We don’t have time for nervous breakdowns.

Sometimes my mother’s amethyst voice answers the phone,
You’re the only one who calls, she says, I have a joke for you.

When I ask her a question about our past,
she responds, Oh, is that cobra raising its ugly head again?

Today her elbows on the wheel chair arms,
one hand rests on her forehead, I have one regret.

Lately, she has become a concert of hands—
waving, nail biting, wringing hands.

She hasn’t seen her husband in over forty years,
but I notice they have similar expressions

as if they had grown old together in the same room.