On the wall of The Ropewalk
restaurant
At the end of Straight Wharf
in Nantucket
Is an enlarged black &
white photograph of an
Old salt woman, heavy-set,
large, sagging breasts
Behind a white-worn cotton
shirt open
At the neck, triangle of
sunburnt chest,
Sleeves rolled-up past her
elbows, beefy forearms
Extending from her waist to
her hands offering
A chocolate-frosted birthday
cake.
Her leathered face is like
the weathered boards
Of the fisherman’s shack
she stands before.
Her mouth is closed in a
tight-lipped smile
Trying not to betray the
warmth behind it.
There’s a mole in the
center of her forehead,
And another above her right
eyelid.
She wears a gray, knitted hat
over mid-length hair
That falls on either side of
her face.
She must have just stepped
through the doorway—
I can’t believe how lightly
she holds the cake!
"Happy Birthday,
Son!" she says as I enter the room.
I am ashamed to acknowledge
her presence.
Why? Her size, her shape, her
homely looks?
The strange thing is, my
birthday’s coming up.
My wife is dead. My lover’s
not here.
My mother’s in another
state.
This dear old one stands in
for them,
Gifting me this birthday
cake.
