Poems

Unwritten Requisition
Texted me to say you won’t always be around,
as if I should shed a tear through this disguise.
This phone doesn’t feel, and neither do I,
how it might be sad to lose a mother otherwise.
But I’d be losing a different kind of mother,
the kind of mother lost which gains you nothing if but one breath of relief.
Obligation, manipulation: No, I still won’t answer your calls.
I’m done playing your childish, guilt-ridden games.
And before you tip-tap on those keys some more,
know that I wished my own life stolen, begged for my own life’s ending
for nothing, if but one breath of relief.


Mam-ma’s Hands Explained
My poetry professor totally dogged the following poem, Mam-ma's Hands.  He said I should have picked another memory of my grandmother that wasn't so cliche as "hands".  Out of respect because he was my professor, I politely accepted his criticism at the time.  But now, I have my degree and I'd like to tell him to shove it.  My grandmother died the summer before I took this class, and what I remembered so distinctly about going to the funeral was her hands, the way they looked so stiff and dead, the way her fingernails were painted the same color she always painted them when she was alive.  This poem was a way I remembered her and made sense out of the odd way her hands looked when I saw her at her funeral.

Mam-ma’s Hands
You were five and it was St. Patrick’s Day.
She taught you how to tie your shoelaces,
guiding your unsure hands with her soft
hands. Christmas Eve the year you asked
for a dollhouse, you helped her wrap presents.
Soft hands held the red ribbon
in place while you tied it into a bow.
You visited almost every weekend,
overnight stays ending in fluffy pancakes.
After breakfast she sipped her coffee while
reading the newspaper, soft hands
methodically lifting mug to lips, then
flipping to the next page. The linens she
dried on the clothes line. You watched her from the
window as you stood on the step-stool built
by Pap-pa. You were small and she far, but
soft hands outlined her delicate
movements. Only a phone call away, soft
hands dialed you up often to say
“I love you.” The same softness put
pen in hand to write you birthday cards, sealed
envelopes and placed stamps with a soft, firm press.
Memories glide down your right cheek, then left.
Hands now motionless, softness now stiffly
folded and posed upon her abdomen.

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