My mother reminds me of the fish tank
in my childhood bedroom. She swills water
to take with the capsule of Ativan to calm
her nerves before her laser eye surgery.
Still without hearing aids, my mother reminds me
I’ll need to relax about raising my voice, holding
a conversation for all to hear in the crowded room.
Her choice of seat reminds me to stay at her right hand,
the only way she can comfortably turn to face.
My mother reminds me of her magical powers
as she neatly folds the clinic’s waiver in quarters,
tucks it into a dark pocket in her purse – spoiler alert:
later, it will have disappeared, just like Houdini,
manacled, from a glass enclosure under water.
Muzzy now from the effects of her calming pill,
my mother reminds me how to look at the world,
her obvious distaste for the large art photo
of a construction site prompting her to muse
that must mean something to someone.
As a constant stream of unsedated patients is called,
my mother reminds me it’s easy to feel overlooked
when every name called is not yours.
My mother reminds me again to stretch my legs
and get a breath of fresh air, which I finally do.
When I return, she’s gone, just like Houdini.
Before long, the doctor appears, wanting the waiver.
I go through every pocket of her purse, sweep
under our chairs, and return to the darkened room
where the procedure will occur, empty-handed.
Under the light of the doctor’s scope my mother
reminds me of some exotic fish, bright markings
around her eyes as she blinks at me, smiles impishly,
her real disappearing act still to come, one I’ll need
to figure out how to follow entirely on my own.
–
Dagne Forrest has recent work appearing in the Oxford Review of Books, Funicular Magazine, periodicities, Pinhole Poetry, Prism International, and Caesura Magazine. She belongs to Painted Bride Quarterly’s senior editorial and podcast teams. Her chapbooks include Un/becoming (Baseline Press, 2025) and Falldown Lane (Whittle Micropress, 2026).