Mother’s Tour

At the Louvre you find Mona Lisa

gone secretly to Japan, Egyptian mummies

closed, Greek statues so arresting

and erect that you stumble. I catch you

falling, but not the pain rising inside.

Hours later you can’t walk. I translate

in Emergency, broken foot? sprained ankle?

As the swelling eases you limp

to where my friend and I have slept.

Sightseeing us naked and embraced and chiseled

in surprise breaks what your pill and gauze

held tight, sends us packing separate souvenirs:

his razor, my guidebooks, your figurines

cracked from travels swelling our distance.