Classic Poem

When my mother came back
— can I say it that way, came back? —
she flitted witlessly, kitchen,
living room, never settling,
like a child or a fly. Mom!
I called. Mom! Her eyes
flashed by me without lighting,
but she hesitated, and with
a kitchen knife I slashed
my thumb. Blood, and she ran to me.
Blood, and she called my name.
What do you want? Say it!
I ordered, holding my hand
behind my back like a gift
for a child, for an adult a bribe.
She wanted blood. Blood
and her slippers. Funny. I'd
have guessed blood, cigarettes,
and a story to make her laugh.
She drank at my white hand
till I grew faint, then she drifted off.
For that minute, that moment, that
passage of time, I was
not childless, or a man.