repoesia

three silent women at the kitchen table
my mother's kitchen is dark and small but out the window
there is the moor, paralyzed with ice.
it extends as far as the eye can see

over flat miles to a solit unlit white sky.
mother and i are chewing lettuce carefully.
the kitchen wall clock emits a ragged low buzz that jumps

once a minute over the twelve.
i have emily p. 216 propped open on the sugarbowl
but am covertly watching my mother.

a thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.
my mother is studying her lettuce.
i turn to p. 217

(...)

it is as if we have all been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.
now and then a remark trails through the glass.
(...)

black open water comes

curdling up like anger. my mother speaks suddenly.
that psychotherapy's not doing you much good is it?
you aren't getting over him.

my mother has a way of summing things up.
she never liked Law much
but she liked the idea of me having a man and getting on with [life.

well he's a taker and you're a giver i hope this works out,
was all she said after she met him.
give and take were just words to me

at the time. i had not been in love before.
it was like a wheel rolling downhill.
(...)

it isn't like taking an aspirin you know, i answer feebly.
dr. haw says grief is a long process.
she frowns. what does it accomplish

all that raking up the past?
(...)

[anne carson.three]

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