Saturday, May 25, 2019

Songs for Orphaned Mothers

These are the poems that are inscribed on the artwork called "Songs for Orphaned Mother" that I exhibited at the Jamestown Art Center recently.  See photo at 5/13/19 "ART Update" post.


Songs for Orphaned Mothers
© Josephine Carubia 2019

            Song I

Do orphans make the best mothers?
            or grandmothers?
Are they grateful for the scraps
            and just one solid man?
Do they raise loyal children who
            gather on Sunday to eat
            their sustenance and
            witness their amazement?
Will they muscle nothing, no,
less than nothing,
into a noisy fragrant kitchen
full of helping hands?

Does an orphan mother mourn?
Does she know the whole cloth of
            what she doesn’t know?

Where were you born?
When were you alone?

You came so far.
Did you find it here,
what you lost?
Was it enough?

            What is enough?
            When is enough?
            How is enough?
            Who is enough?
            Where is enough?

The map of you has few places
            marked.
Places called together and
            places called alone.

Does being mother cancel
            being orphan?

How many stitches to hold it all
            together, but never quite
            repair?
Is it good enough? Or could it
            possibly be beautiful?

I am making this song for you and
all orphan mothers.


            Song II

You were broken when they died,
            but the needs of others
            fused your bones into
            shapes and purposes.

Silent and hurt,
            you submit your dreams
            of home to the required
            husband’s ambition.

Still a child, you
            bore a child with
            no mother of your own.

You fed the living children and
            the dead.

You hoarded scraps
            against the day
             of hardships beyond
            the dry charity
            of a suffering town.

The gabriel went over sea
            and under ground
            to return and leave,
            return and leave.
            Return.

Still, not much was
            something familiar on
            your tongue.

Broken again, in the dark,
            shaken, soiled and sick,
            holding only wisps
            of once familiar penury
            as beautiful memory.

Meanwhile huddled children caring
            for children iterate
            towards new trajectories
            invisible on the shifting dim
            horizon.


      Song III

You don’t smile toward
            the future—
Why would you?
If you knew I was
            coming, would you smile?

Between that girl with a
            ribbon in her hair
And me, mistress of comfort
            and machines,
A century of burdens
            borne across vastness,
            punctuated by rare moments
            of ease, if not joy.

The photographer’s moment,
            a pause before
            the abyss.
You, however, persisted.
            stepping forward despite
            the drag of events,
            towards this intersection
            of your hopes and my thanks.

A century passes.
A faded photo surfaces.
Lines intersect.
I recognize you.

Your hand held still and straight
            is my hand still.

Your wrist outgrowing
            its sleeve—
            your stance with weight
            on one foot—
Your face, the same and different.
All familiar; all family.

Girl!
One fancy dress over
            one heart.
            Beating.

I remember your words for
            a full belly in dialect.
I remember the heavy bucket of
            soapy water up and down
            the building hallways and stairs,
            and I remember the mop.

I remember you calling “Sal-lee”
            up the dark shaft window
            by the sink.

Do you recognize me?
This is my hand
            at the end of your arm.


            Song IV

This corner tells the story of
that time you cried.

Here you climbed the hill
            just to find she was
            already gone.

This piece is for when
            you waited,
            and waited,
            and waited.
But here you saw a star
            streaking across
            the sky and thought
            it was a sign of
            future joy.

This rough patch speaks
            volumes about harsh voices always
leaning against you.


Song V

She is not who you think she is:
a fat old woman in a faded dress
stepping from stove to sink to table
on swollen ankles.

Once she was an orphan girl,
an island girl, almost cinderella,
married at fifteen,
but not living the dream.
Not beautiful, but determined.
Sometimes looking out the window
to the others bustling on first avenue.
Sometimes falling asleep in the kitchen.

From discarded pieces and bits,
mingled with tears, blood, and love,
she generated family:
hard-won wedges
into uncertain futures.



No comments: