Blessed Stillness, Mother as Alley, & Slats
Blessed Stillness
I wish for my death, the cold, quick slip into deep sleep,
where no one demands I change the channel
or comes in from the cold and a smoke,
filling the alcoves of my lungs. Recoil. Recoil.
The full length of my car was sideswiped today
by a driver who didn’t see me, didn’t look,
and deep inside I understand how the rattlesnake
got its name.
My paycheck lacks because of the new healthcare tax
and from taking a day off to attend a double funeral.
Bills line up like jars with twin holes in the lids.
Give me money, my father coughs. Venom. Venom.
Tonight my son ran out into the dark mouth of night,
didn’t stop when I called his name, yet when he sleeps
curls into my back or digs his feet under me. He has drawn
sidewinder marks in blue marker on my laptop.
The renovations should have been done five months ago;
they’ve cost three times more than the original bid.
We were never supposed to be living on top of one another
like snakes writhing in a knotted bag.
The Internet is down again—the router is not responding—
there is no green eye where it should be.
In the mirror my face grows old. Wasn’t this the age,
the moment, my mother, dissatisfied with her life,
ate it whole, unhinged her jaw, swallowed it all?
The bitter thing couldn’t crawl out, caught in a throat
of barbs, nor would it want to from the warm anesthesia
coursing its body from that first prick.
I know now she wished for death, the cold, quick slip into otherness.
My son wakes, eyes still closed, shouts, No, Mama. No.
Release. Release. Mark the last tremor and shake of leg,
then blessed stillness. She had no choice.
Mother as Alley
dead rat, whiskers slick
she used to cook dinner
wine-splattered blouse, lost button
she used to darn Father’s socks
no birds, but there are droppings
a chewed fingernail
she used to bathe every day, smelled of lavender
a hubcap rolls, sneakers dangle from a wire
she used to push a stroller downtown
her soiled underwear is in a plastic bag
her insulin and nail polish keep cold in the fridge
she used to sleep through the night
now her leg cramps up
the trash can is filled with hypodermic needles
not tissues blotted pink
here she lies in bed, arthritis of the spine
clipped toenails fly, cracked heels are lathered with lotion
she spills her tea, uncontrollable tremor
soon she’ll wear a diaper
sometimes she can’t breathe
to brush her hair now hurts
Slats
I was her living doll, pacing the bars
of her cage long after outgrowing the crib,
a doll to dress as she saw fit in her favorite colors,
to feed at exactly six o’clock every evening,
cutting out my knots instead of using conditioner
to my Cleopatra haircut, a style she adored.
I had to slip back through the slats, smiling,
to lower her blood pressure, so the world
wouldn’t frighten her.
As I grew, I learned to hold my breath, then shimmy
through the slats sideways, so she could see herself
in me – a handheld mirror, cracked.
What would happen if I could grill my own steak,
draw my own bath and not get burned,
wash my own hair?
I had nearly finished college, lived six hours away,
when I got the call, returned home, baked
until two in the morning
while my father and brother slept.
Must feed them, anchor them
with kneaded bread.
Before the double bypass, at her bedside,
she whispered in my ear, “I’m doing this
for you; you’re not ready to let go.”
Eugenie Juliet Theall completed her MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College and currently teaches creative writing and English. Her poetry has been published in Carquinez Poetry Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Silk Road, among others. Miss Theall’s work also won first place in the Elizabeth McCormack/Inkwell contest.