Poetry
Tired Mother
Your beautiful daughter
healthy and cheeks full
looking slightly out of frame
Polka dot backdrop
strange bow in her hair
but it wasn’t.
That was my first clue.
The second,
I noticed your hands merged with ruffles
one on each side to stabilize.
I knew you might be back there covered by a persian rug or scratched-
at least your face blackened.
So with a sharp knife
I cut through the crusted glue
incising carefully
Tin falls away from delicate paper, oval
-embossed frame no longer framing-
thin, irregular metal in my palm as you come into view, blurry,
easier to see at an angle between the glare and sheen.
A shock.
To see your face with eyes on me
a sudden sucking in of air
too quickly, straight into my stomach
Because I already knew you.
I knew your tired
your plodding
your weary
your holding
Your holding her. Always
holding still for the light, long exposure
to travel through time and space
behind the black photographer’s drape
For 100 years (or more perhaps?)
you sat
quietly behind the frame.
Holding.
And as soon as I saw you
I loved you
and I held you
Still.
Your beautiful daughter
healthy and cheeks full
looking slightly out of frame
Polka dot backdrop
strange bow in her hair
but it wasn’t.
That was my first clue.
The second,
I noticed your hands merged with ruffles
one on each side to stabilize.
I knew you might be back there covered by a persian rug or scratched-
at least your face blackened.
So with a sharp knife
I cut through the crusted glue
incising carefully
Tin falls away from delicate paper, oval
-embossed frame no longer framing-
thin, irregular metal in my palm as you come into view, blurry,
easier to see at an angle between the glare and sheen.
A shock.
To see your face with eyes on me
a sudden sucking in of air
too quickly, straight into my stomach
Because I already knew you.
I knew your tired
your plodding
your weary
your holding
Your holding her. Always
holding still for the light, long exposure
to travel through time and space
behind the black photographer’s drape
For 100 years (or more perhaps?)
you sat
quietly behind the frame.
Holding.
And as soon as I saw you
I loved you
and I held you
Still.
Picture on a Pony
Ankles turn on cobblestone
without constant vigilance
blinders on
led through the streets of Baltimore
Day in. Day out.
(Sweet) relief when a child is placed on my back
Just stand.
at a marble stoop
in front of a painted screen- pastoral of course
Or near barred windows and formstone
Look at the camera. Over here!
Mother (father, less common)
crouches down between brick and saddle
to prop the little one.
Pretend not to see the dress or legs under my belly
It’s just for fun.
Ears twitch before I distinguish the sound
cousin clip-clopping along, bells jingling
call ringing with slight echo in the alley
The A-rabber’s pony has work heavier than mine
pulling a painted cart, piled high
with vegetables and fruits
Corn here! Tomatoes! Cantaloupes!
What is his carrot on a stick (if all the treats are piled behind him)?
Me: that a boy or girl might take pity and ask Nan for an apple
But I lose my patience
bite it right out of their pudgy hand- pinching-
tiniest, tender piece of flesh with skin and core
Swallowed almost whole
Knowing the whip will come
Under the lamppost on Sussex Rd
Where the fruit cart stops
Reminds me- many years ago
I saw a familiar ghost out of the second floor window
a living skeleton
Up for treatment in the morning
back down to home when the sun was low
until she wasted away
Body no longer able to live on breath alone
one year younger than me
I used to think: I should have been her friend
given her a ride,
pride, and strength.
I thought I had that in me,
and back then
I did.
But mile after mile
my pack grew too heavy
and now, prescient time of pause,
I choose to walk as I please
with nourishing breath in each step
eyes unfocused
Seeing far
Ankles turn on cobblestone
without constant vigilance
blinders on
led through the streets of Baltimore
Day in. Day out.
(Sweet) relief when a child is placed on my back
Just stand.
at a marble stoop
in front of a painted screen- pastoral of course
Or near barred windows and formstone
Look at the camera. Over here!
Mother (father, less common)
crouches down between brick and saddle
to prop the little one.
Pretend not to see the dress or legs under my belly
It’s just for fun.
Ears twitch before I distinguish the sound
cousin clip-clopping along, bells jingling
call ringing with slight echo in the alley
The A-rabber’s pony has work heavier than mine
pulling a painted cart, piled high
with vegetables and fruits
Corn here! Tomatoes! Cantaloupes!
What is his carrot on a stick (if all the treats are piled behind him)?
Me: that a boy or girl might take pity and ask Nan for an apple
But I lose my patience
bite it right out of their pudgy hand- pinching-
tiniest, tender piece of flesh with skin and core
Swallowed almost whole
Knowing the whip will come
Under the lamppost on Sussex Rd
Where the fruit cart stops
Reminds me- many years ago
I saw a familiar ghost out of the second floor window
a living skeleton
Up for treatment in the morning
back down to home when the sun was low
until she wasted away
Body no longer able to live on breath alone
one year younger than me
I used to think: I should have been her friend
given her a ride,
pride, and strength.
I thought I had that in me,
and back then
I did.
But mile after mile
my pack grew too heavy
and now, prescient time of pause,
I choose to walk as I please
with nourishing breath in each step
eyes unfocused
Seeing far
Beast of Burden
I thought I left the bars of the zoo behind,
but they travelled with me
tattooed on my hide.
I place my hoof
through the slats of your crib
to soothe you at night. Tethered
outside your cage is mine
Pins and needles from sitting- bare wood floor
Hour after
hour Night after
night Month after
month
Even year after year- which most don’t believe.
Sometimes I would dream
until your cries pull up the reins- sharp snap
Head jerking awake from the thinnest veil of sleep
Soft, most tender weight on your back
brings quiet again, for a moment
Until creak
of floor thud
of door cast
of light. And so:
change, sing, nurse,
burp, bounce, rock,
swish, sway, walk-
marching in a tight circle.
Repeat.
until just before morning.
Having survived the night
some comfort
barely enough
to begin again as you climb into the saddle
and swaddle yourself in me
I thought I left the bars of the zoo behind,
but they travelled with me
tattooed on my hide.
I place my hoof
through the slats of your crib
to soothe you at night. Tethered
outside your cage is mine
Pins and needles from sitting- bare wood floor
Hour after
hour Night after
night Month after
month
Even year after year- which most don’t believe.
Sometimes I would dream
until your cries pull up the reins- sharp snap
Head jerking awake from the thinnest veil of sleep
Soft, most tender weight on your back
brings quiet again, for a moment
Until creak
of floor thud
of door cast
of light. And so:
change, sing, nurse,
burp, bounce, rock,
swish, sway, walk-
marching in a tight circle.
Repeat.
until just before morning.
Having survived the night
some comfort
barely enough
to begin again as you climb into the saddle
and swaddle yourself in me
Your Mother the Cow
Soft pillow. Affectionate title
bequeathed by my son
to my postpartum stomach
Perfect height, perfect density
for a three-year old forehead
to rest
‘Patient puppy sitting by my side”
an author penned of hers. In mine,
I saw a teddy bear in profile
nose upturned, yet flat,
cheeks billowing out
Even my mother agreed- it looked funny.
Worse still, all my innards fell out
by the end of each day
To sit up took forethought
Stuffing clumped unevenly
on left and right sides
of a canyon. Stick my hand straight in
disappear up to knuckles
muscles bowed
Even my doctor agreed- it was deep.
With ambivalence and apprehension
I got cut from hip to hip
to expose and knit, a wall of four layers
Sewed back up in three
skin never right nor tight and no feeling
but at least I was strong again.
Strong, as an ox? Funny you should ask
(I suppose)
caring for my youngest one triggered
his young one- undone
“Ask your mother, the cow!”
said he
Spitting laughter towards my older
red face round
bursting gleeful metaphor.
Meant to hurt.
Not as much as the silent room
In his gone-ness, less
Even when I tell the tale of his shame
to entertain
or to shock
or to touch the sore.
Now, to settle the score:
How dare you!
Can you not see my
One woolen coat, pure as fresh snow?
Two powerful horns, like ribbons of steel?
Three point harness, fit fine as a glove?
Four built-to-climb hooves, hard as diamonds?
(I suppose)
similes are lost on you
maybe you have black spots on your glasses
or heart.
But still
you can fold your knees up to chest
climb in my cart with the kids
I’ll pull the whole lot of you.
Because
you’re really a child
in need of a nanny.
That’s my job
And besides
I bear your name.
Soft pillow. Affectionate title
bequeathed by my son
to my postpartum stomach
Perfect height, perfect density
for a three-year old forehead
to rest
‘Patient puppy sitting by my side”
an author penned of hers. In mine,
I saw a teddy bear in profile
nose upturned, yet flat,
cheeks billowing out
Even my mother agreed- it looked funny.
Worse still, all my innards fell out
by the end of each day
To sit up took forethought
Stuffing clumped unevenly
on left and right sides
of a canyon. Stick my hand straight in
disappear up to knuckles
muscles bowed
Even my doctor agreed- it was deep.
With ambivalence and apprehension
I got cut from hip to hip
to expose and knit, a wall of four layers
Sewed back up in three
skin never right nor tight and no feeling
but at least I was strong again.
Strong, as an ox? Funny you should ask
(I suppose)
caring for my youngest one triggered
his young one- undone
“Ask your mother, the cow!”
said he
Spitting laughter towards my older
red face round
bursting gleeful metaphor.
Meant to hurt.
Not as much as the silent room
In his gone-ness, less
Even when I tell the tale of his shame
to entertain
or to shock
or to touch the sore.
Now, to settle the score:
How dare you!
Can you not see my
One woolen coat, pure as fresh snow?
Two powerful horns, like ribbons of steel?
Three point harness, fit fine as a glove?
Four built-to-climb hooves, hard as diamonds?
(I suppose)
similes are lost on you
maybe you have black spots on your glasses
or heart.
But still
you can fold your knees up to chest
climb in my cart with the kids
I’ll pull the whole lot of you.
Because
you’re really a child
in need of a nanny.
That’s my job
And besides
I bear your name.
