137 Mother poems

I have no answer to the blank inequity of a four-year-old dying of cancer. I saw her on t.v. and wept with my mouth full of meatloaf. I constantly flash on disasters now; red lights shout Warning.Danger. everywhere I look. I buckle him in, but what if a car with a grille like a sharkbite roared up out of the road? I feed him square meals but what if the fist of his heart should simply fall open? I carried him safely as long as I could, but now he's a runaway on the dangerous highway. Warning.Danger. I've started to pray. But the dangerous highway curves through blue evenings when I hold his yielding hand and snip his miniscule nails with my vicious-looking scissors. I carry him around like an egg in a spoon, and I remember a porcelain fawn, a best friend's trust, my broken faith in myself. It's not my grace that keeps me erect as the sidewalk clatters downhill under my rollerskate wheels. Sometimes I lie awake troubled by this thought: It's not so simple to give a child birth; you also have to give it death, the jealous fairy's christening gift. I've always pictured my own death as a closed door, a black room, a breathless leap from the mountain top with time to throw out my arms, lift my head, and see, in the instant my heart stops, a whole galaxy of blue. I imagined I'd forget, in the cessation of feeling, while the guilt of my lifetime floated away like a nylon nightgown, and that I'd fall into clean, fresh forgiveness. Ah, but the death I've given away is more mine than the one I've kept: from my hand the poisoned apple, from my bow the mistletoe dart. Then I think of Mama, her bountiful breasts. When I was a child, I really swear, Mama's kisses could heal. I remember her promise, and whisper it over my sweet son's sleep: When you float to the bottom, child, like a mote down a sunbeam, you'll see me from a trillion miles away: my eyes looking up to you, my arms outstretched for you like night.

(there’ll be days like this.) — The Shirelles These folks ’bout to respect me into the grave. At eighty Mama said, (mama said) “People think you change when you’re old but you still got a girl inside.” And men could see her, too — that pink silk dress — soothe that hotel bellboy “Boy, I’m old enough to be your mama.” He coy “well, you ain’t.” But seventy is prime time for me to own what “elder” brings. I reap myself with the respect they sow. They don’t know I got the road wide open in me.

On the telephone, friends mistake us now when we first say hello—not after. And that oddly optimistic lilt we share nourishes my hopes: we do sound happy. . . . Last night, in my dream’s crib, a one-day infant girl. I wasn’t totally unprepared— there was the crib, and cotton kimonos, not just a padded dresser drawer. And then, I knew I could drive to the store for the tiny, funny clothes my daughter wears. I was in a familiar room and leaned over the rail, crooning Hello, and the smiling baby— she’d be too young for speech, I know, or smiles— gurgled back at me,Hullo. —If I could begin again, I’d hold her longer, closer! Maybe that way, when night opens into morning, and all my windows gape at the heartbreaking street, my dreams wouldn’t pierce so, I wouldn’t hold my breath at the parts of my life still in hiding, my childhood’s white house where I lunged toward the flowers of love as if I were courting death. . . . Over the crib, a mobile was spinning, bright birds going nowhere, primary colors, primary as mothering once seemed. . . . Later, I wonder why I dreamt that dream, yearning for what I’ve had, and have why it was my mother’s room, the blonde moderne bedroom set hidden under years of junk—a spare room’s the nicest way to put it, though now all her crowded rooms are spare—

There once was a Square, such a square little Square, And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her skirt Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread Of domestic woes and wrangles; For he thought that his fate was to procreate Cute little Squares and Triangles. Now it happened one day on that geometric way There swaggered a big bold Cube, With a haughty stare and he made that Square Have the air of a perfect boob; To his solid spell the Triangle fell, And she thrilled with love’s sweet sickness, For she took delight in his breadth and height— But how she adored his thickness! So that poor little Square just died of despair, For his love he could not strangle; While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed That cute and acute Triangle. The Square’s sad lot she has long forgot, And his passionate pretensions ... For she dotes on her kids—Oh such cute Pyramids In a world of three dimensions.

It’s no use Mother dear, I can’t finish my weaving You may blame Aphrodite soft as she is she has almost killed me with love for that boy

breezy, floral, dancing with color soft, silky, flows as I walk Easter Sunday and you always liked to get dressed, go for brunch, "maybe there's a good movie playing somewhere?" Wrong religion, we were not church-goers, but New Yorkers who understood the value of a parade down 5th Avenue, bonnets in lavender, powder blues, pinks, hues of spring, the hope it would bring. We had no religion but we did have noodle kugel, grandparents, dads who could fix fans, reach the china on the top shelf, carve the turkey. That time has passed. You were the last to go, mom, and I still feel bad I never got dressed up for you like you wanted me to. I had things, things to do. But today in L.A.— hot the way you liked it—those little birds you loved to see flitting from tree to tree— just saw one, a twig in its mouth, preparing a bed for its baby—might still be an egg, I wish you were here. I've got a closet filled with dresses I need to show you.

if mama could see she would see lucy sprawling limbs of lucy decorating the backs of chairs lucy hair holding the mirrors up that reflect odd aspects of lucy. if mama could hear she would hear lucysong rolled in the corners like lint exotic webs of lucysighs long lucy spiders explaining to obscure gods. if mama could talk she would talk good girl good girl good girl clean up your room.

In the early afternoon my mother was doing the dishes. I climbed onto the kitchen table, I suppose to play, and fell asleep there. I was drowsy and awake, though, as she lifted me up, carried me on her arms into the living room, and placed me on the davenport, but I pretended to be asleep the whole time, enjoying the luxury— I was too big for such a privilege and just old enough to form my only memory of her carrying me. She’s still moving me to a softer place.

every wall stood at attention even the air knew when to hold its breath the polished floors looked up defying heel marks the plastic slipcovers crinkled in discomfort in my mother’s house the window shades flapped against the glare of the world the laughter crawled like roaches back into the cracks even the humans sat— cardboard cut-outs around the formica kitchen table and with silver knives sliced and swallowed their words

She begins, and my grandmother joins her. Mother and daughter sing like young girls. If my father were alive, he would play his accordion and sway like a boat. I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace, nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers running away in the grass. But I love to hear it sung; how the waterlilies fill with rain until they overturn, spilling water into water, then rock back, and fill with more. Both women have begun to cry. But neither stops her song.