April 10, 2009

Talking with the Dead

Himself: Fixing broken things, spoiling me….shame on him, and thinking about packing.

Herself: Tried on one of the travel outfits. Poetry group said the shirt didn’t look too worn, and the pants worked great.

Reading: Just arrived: Spandau.

Balance: Walking by the bay. Reading the poem a second time and hearing what they said.

I wear bits of mother sometimes
thinking she knows I’m wearing
her diamonds, her soul, her dislike.
Rarely do I talk with her.

I wear my father on occasion
a ring or a watch or a fob.
He ignores me.

I sit with silent Gimpa
in the Morris chair bought to go with him
to college

I the granddaughter who failed in school
tell him I went to college
and graduated with honors
as if it matters now

What matters are the books,
all books,
the science fiction, mysteries,
collected cookbooks that line my shelves

books that obscure the childhood
the inedible foods,
the tough mutton and slimy okra,
the hives, vomiting
the punishments

Always bread and milk
love masked in beatings
the anger hidden by Limoges
by Spode

The childhood hidden,
by generations
of possessions now given away
safe somewhere new
while I
making a whole new circle
learn to love myself in the end.


  1. Mage,

    I'm sending you many hugs. Some of us love you very much.


  2. Ditto! So much emotion packed into those words. What else can I say other than I'm glad you're on this side of that childhood now.

  3. I love you very much Mom,
    Not only did it bring a tear to my eye, but it also explaines alot to me. I want to say this to you very much. You were never much of a mom in the past, but what really counts is that you are a great mom to me now and I truly love you and i do understand.


What a delight to get a note from you. Thanks for leaving one.


George coming down Peter’s hall that’s lined with wood and artifacts from wonderful ocean liners of the past .             We ...