in 77 years, she had
so many different names
her husband and friends
called her Lo,
& we 3 called her Mom
& when she forgot
she was a mother
& that she had a nickname once
when she started calling
me “Mother,”
I called her
what my grandmother called her–
Lois,
because she would answer.
The lesson is simple:
Wear gloves,
because this is muddy effort
that works its way
beneath fingernails
the unplanned roots
grab hard, unwilling to leave
soil this well-tended
& welcoming
some are beautiful
but leaving them
will choke & stunt
what feeds us
Lois went to a place
full of old,
sick,
inconvenient people
sitting in chairs
lining the hallway
denied my impulse
to care for her myself
by her husband;
because,
as he put it,
I had a life
& a family
of my own.
I said,
isn’t she
part of that?
It doesn’t matter
now, because
the result was
since she saw us
just once a week
& could only remember
in minutes
other people
became her family,
not us.
Morning everyone–here is my little snippet of Buffalo’s Urban Epiphany, performed 4/22/12.A total of 65 poets read that day, and we had 2 minutes each to read. If you get a chance, check our Marek Phillip Parker and Jimmie Gilliam–Marek is my very good long-time friend and Jimmie is a teacher and mentor.
we took a free dance class
from a coupon you found
in the Yellow Pages
learned to tango together
your green eyes
laughing into mine;
it was almost love
between us,
but simpler, sweeter
a memory with no pain
& I can still hear
that music
I call them my dead,
not that they don’t still
belong to themselves
or to the universe now,
but they are mine
because when they lived
we walked together
& now I carry memories
from each of them
like small stones in my pocket
worn smooth by my fingers:
This stone is my father,
who died when I was on the cusp
of knowing him better.
Our eyes are identical;
neither brown nor green,
but happy shifting between the 2 colors.
This is my grandmother,
who taught me herb-lore
& when to plant things
& how to write
an S.
This stone is hard
& still sharp on the edges,
and is my sister
who died too young:
we should still be arguing
& raising children together.
This stone,
deepest in my pocket
& warmed by body heat
represents my mother,
who we lost long before
her heart stopped beating,
& who I remember most
because at the end
I was her memory.
These are my dead
& I remember them
with joy, with tears;
with peace,
& with some anger.
If I could,
I would gather their bones
in 1 place
& pour wine
over the earth
that holds them;
not in worship
or fear, simply
in a gesture
of thanks-giving.
Spring will blush bright red
& cover our nakedness
with apple blossoms
I’ll bring the blanket
& taste your kisses gladly
beneath the fresh sky
without shame
the laughing sunlight
as witness
***The idea for this haiku chain was stolen from a novel I read years ago–don’t remember the name of the novel, or the author–just this one fun little blip. If anyone knows the author of the novel, please let me know 🙂 . The original lines from the book were “Hey, hey, it’s the first of May/outdoor sex begins today.”
Susan Daniels Poetry 