A funeral summons me an ocean away: My grandmother's face, complacent, a foreign sight to my stranger's eyes. Heavy incense drowning me in sweetness, perfume of my past. I remember sitting in my grandmother's lap her stories of tricky rabbits who outsmarted wolves, filial children who walked barefoot through blizzards to find turnips for their hungry parents. My grandmother's voice was raspy, fuzzy sandpaper surprisingly soothing with the soft cadence of her island dialect. I remember celebrating birthdays with cakes as big and round as a harvest moon, the frosting clinging to my nose, my grandmother beaming and the light from the candles bouncing off the fillings of her teeth. I remember my grandma visiting us in America, the lines of her face weathered, her voice hoarse, her sentences broken, the melody interrupted by a stroke. She disrupted my life. Her solid shadow could darken a room. That smell of tiger balm and mothballs she carried. She sat in a dark room, alone, eyes fixed on the television screen. Out of wet eye corners, she watched my brother and I talk, so quiet we forgot she was there. She loved sitting in our yard as the day slipped into dusk: the birds warbling, her toes digging in the grass, the blades tickling feet, a hiccup of laughter from the small woman in the lawn chair. I remember watching her figure grow dim in the fading light, catching her eye and seeing her shiny teeth, Knowing her smile would linger as everything else grew dark.
Eva Ting everting@yahoo.com (originally published in "clarion," literary magazine at BU)
was a boomerang with a serrated edge a hand in the dark a black widow in my bed her voice her hair her mouth her eyes a double-sided mirror, one true, one lies my mother the vampire married to the Count of Pain frying eggs with my soft easy head scrubbing floors rubbing me clean erasing evidence replacing my clothes brushing my curls saving me in tupperware
Little bug, little bug, what can you ask of me? I can’t save you and the little ant, too, and sit where I happen to be.
I never meant to get so big, nor you, I’m sure, so small; and we can’t decide if we swim or glide, or pace, or fret, or crawl.
But you’ll land on my arm, and I’ll land on your grass, having wings (as we do) and feet, and there’s nothing to do but to do what we do, and tip hats when we meet.
Open Casket
ReplyDeleteA funeral summons me an ocean away:
My grandmother's face, complacent,
a foreign sight to my stranger's eyes.
Heavy incense drowning me in sweetness,
perfume of my past.
I remember sitting in my grandmother's lap
her stories of tricky rabbits
who outsmarted wolves,
filial children who walked barefoot
through blizzards
to find turnips for their hungry parents.
My grandmother's voice was raspy,
fuzzy sandpaper
surprisingly soothing
with the soft cadence of her island dialect.
I remember
celebrating birthdays
with cakes as big and round as a harvest moon,
the frosting clinging to my nose,
my grandmother beaming
and the light from the candles bouncing
off the fillings of her teeth.
I remember
my grandma visiting us in America,
the lines of her face weathered,
her voice hoarse,
her sentences broken,
the melody interrupted by a stroke.
She disrupted my life.
Her solid shadow could darken a room.
That smell of tiger balm and
mothballs she carried.
She sat in a dark room, alone,
eyes fixed on the television screen.
Out of wet eye corners,
she watched my brother and I talk,
so quiet we forgot she was there.
She loved sitting in our yard
as the day slipped into dusk:
the birds warbling,
her toes digging in the grass,
the blades tickling feet,
a hiccup of laughter
from the small woman in the lawn chair.
I remember
watching her figure
grow dim in the fading light,
catching her eye and seeing her shiny teeth,
Knowing her smile would linger
as everything else grew dark.
Eva Ting
everting@yahoo.com
(originally published in "clarion," literary magazine at BU)
MY MOTHER
ReplyDeletewas a boomerang
with a serrated edge
a hand in the dark
a black widow in my bed
her voice her hair her mouth her eyes
a double-sided mirror,
one true, one lies
my mother the vampire
married to the Count of Pain
frying eggs with my soft easy head
scrubbing floors
rubbing me clean
erasing evidence
replacing my clothes
brushing my curls
saving me in tupperware
Song for the Little Bug
ReplyDeleteLittle bug, little bug,
what can you ask of me?
I can’t save you and the little ant, too,
and sit where I happen to be.
I never meant to get so big,
nor you, I’m sure, so small;
and we can’t decide if we swim or glide,
or pace, or fret, or crawl.
But you’ll land on my arm, and I’ll land on your grass,
having wings (as we do) and feet,
and there’s nothing to do but to do what we do,
and tip hats when we meet.