"the two…stared at each other in consternation, and neither knew what to do" — Pearl Buck
Rebirth
When she was three
the fever came,
a pox upon the house.
This,
according to
the story told how
many times?
Transfusions
of a rare type
were a slim chance
for survival.
Posts in the
carpenter's union
and radio announcements
finally wrought the
sorely needed pints.
They said
she died then,
before
the savoring of a miracle
and a white light soliloquy
fed the thirsty mainstream.
She died,
he said.
I saw the breath
leave, and I grabbed her
by her feet
and hung her from
my arms and
out the hospital window.
Mother always
looked at him
as if she were
wailing for a lingering babe,
anew.
He saved her, and
she breathed
again.
But I knew differently.
When she finally came home,
she no longer walked
with me along the ice-plant row
toe to toe.
Her mangled gait,
a paralyzing dismay
which mother tried
to cloak
in long Woolworth coats.
Her garbled,
convoluted,
speech accompanied
by unceasing
tortuous spittle.
Marked by
indelible differences,
she was oft excused for wetting beds,
poking out artificial
eyes of plastic babes, and
gently scolded for biting
younger children
who dared to stare
from across the street.
She, who was never home,
was sometimes accused
of waging war.
Later she rose to
float herself acceptably alone,
managing small spaces
forming an array of friendships,
developing a strong sense
of mechanical tone.
Today I watch her in her zone.
She who never wrote or discussed
great books
saves Harlequins high upon a shelf.
I don't know if she makes it through
or enjoys Fabian on the front.
I asked her once to hear her reply,
I might read them.
I laugh with her over a movie
I do not enjoy viewing
while eyeing others similarly
stacked amid a collection
to be played again
and yet again.
Across the wire I listen
to her lore,
bored,
and we chat
about family members
I do not wish to see.
My responses generally fit one refrain,
Oh really,
I see,
What about that!
Then there are nights,
like this night,
when the house is quiet and
old shadows are still.
I close my eyes to spy her
stealthy quest across the room,
a sychronized execution
toward my bed.
Retucked,
she'll beg for a new adventure
of Sharma the kitty who always crosses the road.
Two sisters,
constantly masquerading
in the stories of our own telling,
and later preserved by me,
considered the clement elder
more the vehement biter, wetter,
watchful truculent protector.
Scupper©2009
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Ashley Holt
jackie2
The Songbird
Bullet or Film
Ernesto Tinajero
Rodney Roe
Salon.com
Comments
peece,
dj
Rated, of course....:)
Highly rated!
I'd submit this to them. They might say no---but it would be their loss. Because this just soars as a poem I will personally never, ever forget.
Rated
highly rated.
such sorrow. such Knowledge. such ironic remorse.
wow.
A beautiful, haunting poem.