FULL SERVICE POET

The bitterness of the ancestresses
spit upon me

What did I do wrong
my child self wanted to know
Nothing but to exist
to be hers
…………………………………..out of her body in spite
……………………………………………………of herself
…………………………………..to spite perhaps
…………………….her love
…….her love of sex, surely
her pulchritude, my dad would call it
in us,
her unwanted daughters

In age and decrepitude
my mother has finally had enough
of so much,
finally heard enough

It was her own monsignor,
in the end, implicated,
pimping his own parish,
who prompted her to turn her back
on the church

which means she faced me now

as she began to make comedic confessions
to anyone

“Bless me father, for I have sinned…
I think…maybe…
I wasn’t supposed to have all these children?”
and she laughs her demented laugh
now that dementia frees her mind
“Do you know what it’s like, Father?”
and she laughs hysterically
in spite of the hysterectomy

Not just in spite, to spite.
She spits the bitterness
of our ancestresses.
I dodge
like only an abused child knows how
standing a little narrow
one hip back
a little twist of the spine
to be ready to spring

Then, safe
then, curious
I look for these women
light years from their passing
We pore over the sepia and silver prints
the black paper corners loosening

This, dear reader,
is light years of progress from the arguments
we used to have about whether abortion
is moral, which always ended: “If I
believed in abortion
you wouldn’t exist.”

I’d laugh: inconceivable!
…..
…..
…..To hear a speed-reading of this poem as part of a Pecha Kucha (presentation of 20 seconds each for 20 slides), check this video. The poem starts at 1:22.

    This poem was previously published in Incandescent Mind and Post-Catholic Midrashim.