Mother’s Day 2020

These days she’s happy to have a card that arrives 
on time, butterflies on its front, and a call before

mass. She answers the phone, says, “Guess what 
I’m doing!” She’s stretched out in my dead father’s  

leather recliner, a busted spring bulging at its back—
twelve years later, she won’t replace it, believes  

it still has his DNA. Her iPad’s propped on her knees, 
a floral paint-by-numbers on its screen. Yesterday

the neighbors dropped by with squash casserole
and a stylus she’s using now, to prevent 

a hematoma from erupting on her wrist. They wore 
masks, which meant she couldn’t read their lips—

 “but I made like I understood.” They wrapped her 
in a clean sheet folded to fit and took turns  

hugging her. I say, “That sounds like such good 
medicine.” I wipe my eyes. I’m walking my dog 

some 750 miles away. I stop to watch a crow
chase a hawk, their battle an aerial ballet.

In any other year, this would be a lovely day.

MARISSA P. CLARK

Marisa P. Clark is a queer Southerner whose writing appears/will appear in Shenandoah, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Epiphany, Foglifter, Potomac Review, Rust + Moth, Louisiana Literature, and elsewhere. Best American Essays 2011 recognized her nonfiction among its Notable Essays. She lives in New Mexico with three parrots and two dogs.