My husband explains harmonics
to my mother. She keeps mishearing him
and he repeats himself.
Several vodkas make him patient.
“It’s more complex, but at the same time, mellow,”
he says, laying his hands on the Wurlitzer.
My mother, with chess pieces in her hair,
in her pajamas, in the autumn
of her life. This fall the leaves are
On the radio they say:
This season the colors will be brighter.
You’re not just seeing things.
And all over the city the trees flame,
like thousands of fires that burn brightly
and go out.