For her sixtieth birthday, my mother

bought herself a shiny red trike

with a big cushiony seat and a rubber horn

that she beeped at everyone in the park.

Everybody knew about my mother—

lounging backwards on the adult trike,

speeding through the park and showing off.

I'm the talk of the town, Mother boasted,

the day the local paper snapped a picture

and captioned it Woman's best friend.

This was what my mother always wanted,

ever since that first time her father

brought her home early from the circus

promising to buy her a bike.

Instead he brought her back to his bedroom

and had his way with her young body.

He made her swear never to tell a soul

then went upstairs to practice his musical scales.

Mother peeked out from her parents’ room

and found her mother on the stairs weeping.

She kissed her, and smoothed back her hair,

wept to the sound of her mother's weeping.

Then she held her mother's big body

in her skinny white arms, and together they rocked

back and forth to the music of her father

playing La Campenella on the violin upstairs.