revisited I

pont de l’alma

there was something disquieting about the way
my mother placed her three middle fingers—
ring, middle and index— in between her

teeth, clamped, but not biting. like she was
starting to eat her hand and then
forgot. one arm tense against her side, bent

at the elbow up into her mouth; the other,
folded across her middle. she sat
for hours, watching footage

from princess diana’s car accident
in paris. over and over, the mangled
car in the tunnel, depleted airbags. reporters

talking of paparazzi, a high-speed
chase. broken arms and concussions became
trapped feet, bloody ears, then severed

veins and tissue let her heart jerk
left to right. it wasn’t until
the funeral that my mother

took her fingers out from between her teeth. she closed
her eyes each time the camera focused
on william or harry, cried when elton john sang

“candle in the wind.”  the monday after the funeral, my mother
bought a bouquet of english cream roses,
and put them in a vase on the kitchen table.