My Mother and Mr. Umlauf
By Karyna McGlynn

I choke up a last minute luncheon:
a Mother's Day buffet
at the Umlauf Sculpture Gardens.

My mother, mortifying
in a now empty tummy
and shapeless maternity tunic,
little elastic ties in back
to tighten the cotton thinly
where she sags—grey flowers,
empty skin bag, spot of mustard.

She keeps tearing up,
wanting to call the babysitter.
Did I mention, she glows
in old under-eye circles
and fresh air?

I wear an inappropriate black sheath,
discover too late in the sun
that it's covered in cat fur,
courtyard of homely women
with Aztec jewelry working
the crowd in brassy laughs,
begging the Junior Leaugers
to take out their checkbooks
in the name of local art:

Nodding bobbed heads
the color of chardonnay—
Laura Ashley Land
presses in around us,
and I am sure we smell
of thrift and beans.

Later, there is a fashion show
to accompany the warm cherry compote,
mother and daughter pairs
twirl past our table, announcing prices
that make my mother cough.
The women who share our table
with the sugar-drunk mosquitoes
are a dentist’s family.
It shows.
My mother is not impressed.