I am good at keeping secrets

whispering poems my mother memorized

in the orphanage — she stood

upon the stage in a stiff starched dress

benefactors & buy-me parents in the audience

and recited with appropriate dramatic gestures

the story of a boy flogged by flame waiting

for his papa on the burning ship

a real tearjerker

& people applauded

& admired the myriad of mingy children lined

up & perhaps a baby whose mama

died in childbirth and papa of tuberculosis

— too bad — my mother aged

out of the orphanage at 15 & later when I knew

her out of life itself having in between taught

me the secrets of poetry

along with a dozen dramatic gestures,