Once when I was a child
I loved everything in blue
And I could hide
Behind a table napkin my mother used to iron and starch.
Now my mother's hands are sick and I draw for her
A blue life on  white napkins.  

My Mom
tells herself
Through
Embroidered transparent
,cloths
Through  mists.
Her looks are
Happy, melancholic
And all her memories are
Graduates of swirls.
My daughter,
she keeps asking
Move away the curtain.