Catherine Jackson is seated at the harp.
Frizzy gray hair, dangling earrings,
long powdered nose, long
bare arms, satiny skirt
with painted flowers

spread over her knees.
My mother told me I’d never
amount to a hill of beans.
Her strong callused fingers
press into the strings.

Swishing out the door—
laughter glissandoing
through the air—
lifts her foot—the one
in elevated red leather shoe—

into her yellow jeep
Photo by Amelia Adamsand disappears over the hill.
Her handwriting swirls gaily
over the page: You can do
whatever you want.