Dipper

My mother had two voices: one sent me to bed before 

I was sleepy, the other roamed the house at night, 

when I’d pull a book from under my pillow, angle it into 

the trapezoid of hall light - Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales - 

a soaring keen I knew must be a violin but also knew 

was her night voice though I never asked, believing a thing

would show itself as it truly was if you paid attention, the pot roast, 

the vacuumed house both more and less than my mother, 

her night voice a mystery whose rules I obeyed or all of it 

would unravel, pot roast, clean house, book and light, and years 

later I still hear my mother’s voice traveling the house traveling 

my mind like the tale of the girl and the dipper that gave off

more and more light as she gave more and more of herself 

until it flew from her hands into the night and became stars.