The Silent Ones

I remember the dust on your truck.
I remember picking corn, and looking at your knee.
I remember grinding the cane, and pouring the juice in the vat.
You stirred it with a long stick.

Do you remember the skinny girl of eight, with tangled hair and no front teeth?
You'd always stick your hand on my bony knee
and say, "This here mule's hungry for some corn."

I ran away from you, laughing, for twenty years.

When I came back, I was hopelessly big,
and you were far too small.

I was afraid of your silence,
hoping the blinds would be open so I could look out the window.

Did you know that Grandma was always telling me to "TALK LOUDER!"?

Who is this man, who sits
at the head of the Thanksgiving table
in his white hat?
Who is he, talking about the slaughter of hogs?

I'm just a daughter's daughter's daughter.
You would have recognized me three years ago.

Before you died, I sat in your room.
You sang hymns, and I felt ashamed for not knowing the words.


Romance at Thirty-four

By day, your arms hang thick with bracelets;
turquoise and silver, malachite. "Teacher
jewlery," your son jokes; but you don't care.
You pin amber and agate in your hair.

You fall asleep by eight o'clock each night.
Is this what you thought you'd make of your life?

Throwing a pizza oven-ward
still happens most nights near five o'clock,
but these days your son brings friends.
They cram bread in their mouths and play videogames.
You let them eat off of tv trays.

Didn't you think, by now, that you'd be a wife?

You hate the swollen, glowing, bedroom moon.
It illuminates the absence.

Remember when your son was two, and you
ate ramen noodles and craved anything new?

You have your teaching job by now; the brats
drip from you like diamonds. You wear your suits
and skirts and rings. Your hair goes up: a twist
wrapped around a pen. Piano lessons, violin,

you have the things you could not have back then,
but you are every bit as lonely.