Sisters, not mothers,
we lock the attic against fathers and brothers,
and sweat and shine
amongst the dusty quilts
of sisters of a sadder time.
We bathe, close to the moon,
in the gentle lap and ebb that comes
upon sisters in their room,
being one and being other.
The rest of us live.
We clean the truck’s windows; wash the sheets;
press our thumbnails into our child’s wrist to quiet her down;
hear the hollow thunk of our shoe connect with the dog’s chin,
half accidentally;
turn cruelly from the weak; buy a little something for ourselves;
tell the joke that hardens a heart;
forget his birthday, the anniversary, our sorrow.
While we worship the good who have gone before
we can not help
but love ourselves.
Birds drop each through a thin space
where stringy clouds catch
and unravel in their beaks.
Sunshine is cut and cooled with blue
and their lace bones inspire.
On earth we slog through a clabbered mist,
thick with clots of gnats and pollen,
and where your loosed breath
washes into my mouth.
The crows have found the crumbs,
covered the moon with their cruel wings.
You and I consumed the last bits of rage
hours ago.
Orphans crudely bedded and cold
we recall
the acrid nourishment of indignation,
the nervous warmth of pain.
Cat tracks in raked gravel
Mallard laughs his demented laugh
Willow dabbles her fingers in dark water
Lotus dry in cold sun
Maples rust
Above, the transparent casing
of yesterday’s moon.
For an unseasonably warm day
February and the daffodils are nosing
through my midwestern lawn,
February rain bringing March flowers.
Leaving school the path is daylit and people
warble good byes, arms waving from open cars.
Bicycles are dusted; children lose their hats.
It’s all wrong.
My New England heart wants
to return to her own dark kitchen
where yellow light puddles
like warm tallow on the oil cloth;
wants to boil beans, soaked and swollen
to tenderness, until they slip
from their jackets,
smoke and shimmy.
4/8/1930-10/10/2007
My mother enjoyed life and a wide variety of things in it. To her, whatever was up next was going to be great! She loved her family, all children, books, crossword puzzles, teddy bears, dolls, the Catholic church, seafood, cigarettes and coffee, the Secular Franciscans, and jazz. Hers was a world in which Precious Moments could groove to Oscar Peterson. As a child she’d taken acrobatic ballet lessons and late into her life she could still do perfect cartwheels for her grandchildren. Without any formal education or training she made a successful career of writing and publishing; and she made it look natural and easy.
My mothers life was not easy. And it was populated by some difficult people. For many years I was one of them. And yet she absolutely insisted on seeing the world through the eyes of love and grace and beauty.
Ever my father’s daughter, I can’t tell you how many times I tried to explain to her (and these word are all capitalized like in Winnie the Pooh) The Reality of the Situation. She would just say, “I know, Peg,” and go right back to seeing the world of love and grace and beauty. And no matter how many times I tried to warn her, she always talked to strangers.
I want to tell you my family’s iconic Francine story: It is the mid-sixties, a time when going out to eat was for very special occasions only. We’re in one of my father’s awful cars, let’s say the Rambler, and we drive past a pancake house. My mother says, “A pancake house! Those are always so nice.” A pause. My father says, “Fran, have you ever been to a pancake house?” She hadn’t. But she knew that if she did, it would be great.
In her final days my mother’s body was broken from the accident and she had pneumonia. It hurt her to move and it hurt her to breathe. But, typically Francine, because her family was standing around her bed she said, “Hasn’t this been the best week ever?”
Myself, I’m not a believer. But for her I am sure that whatever is up next is bound to be great.
on his death
Hauling my Father Away
The man who hauled my father away
arrived at the trailer park in a black Chevy Blazer
with funereal curlicues painted on the back window.
The trailer was disintegrating, my father was big,
and though it was a grey February day
the man was sweating through his black polyester.
When the wheel on the gurney hit the hole on the floor
my father flopped sideways like a tuna
trying to catapult itself out the door.
My brother and I laughed
in spite of ourselves.
We were so tired.
And our father was so gone.
For my Father, Five Years Dead
I said I love you as I left that day.
You didn’t hear me say it, I suspect.
I’d turned to go, the machines were in the way,
and I wasn’t even sure it’s what I meant.
The dark familial clutter clears away
as years and failures all my own amass.
I say I loved you easier today,
not just because you are not coming back.
I walk in upon a relay team of elderly siblings
proficient at sitting and loving.
So easily they leave behind their own tasks,
their sewing and the calls of grown children,
to care.
I show them how to draw up the morphine
to the lullaby of the tv laugh track.
I should draw up their patience.
Instead the bull of my own will
kicks and snorts –
wants to trample to dust this outdated cereal,
this stained white doughnut box holding up the trash can,
this bowl with its dusty chocolate,
a dozen bottles, each with an inch of perfume.
Oh how I love to Do Something.
Charmed by real love
I commit magic in these streets.
Junkies propose marriage,
rapists place jackets over puddles,
rats sweep my floor.
Sent forth with real love’s
awkward text
I wave my hand and
buses arrive on time,
pitbulls belly-up,
roaches slit their own throats.
Grinning,
arms gift-full,
I step into our story.
Small Poems de Terre 