Doilies Jacqueline Bishop In the house off Constant Spring Road, the one with the short spreading Julie mango tree   in the front yard, the lime tree   with their dark green leaves and delicate   white flowers; the palm-sized   burnt orange hibiscuses,   poisonous butter yellow allamandas,   I remember, I remember,   how my mother’s hands kept moving   as she produced one white crochet doily after another. The slender silver hook and the fragile symmetry. A Ford Escort was parked in the garage of that house. Oil-slicked men tried stealing that powder blue Ford Escort one night as we slept uneasily in the house— Discussions began immediately about leaving  one [...]