Crammed

Crammed
Into cardboard boxes,
Dusty pieces of her life
Sat heavy in the room.
I’d edge past the boxes
The way you might
A stray dog,
That looks hungry
And dangerous.

I told myself
There’d be no answers
In the old photos
And writing
That I hadn’t wanted.
How like my Dad
To force upon me
Unwanted memories
And secrets.

Picking at her remains
I scavenged for understanding
I knew I couldn’t have.
What had happened to her?
Did she know what happened to me?

His letter to her
“What am I supposed to say…
“You wanted another baby…”
“Lose some weight…”
Those last words
All in capitols
As if it’s the most important message.

I know how to lose weight Daddy,
I have starved my body
Until I was all bones and cold.
I wanted you to cut yourself
On my jagged edges.

Swollen Ankles

Why did I always
Stare at her stubby,
Bloated toes?
Disconnected bits
Of my mother.
Her ankles and feet
Seemed like
A yeasty, doughy mix
Puffed up and warm.

Hospital rooms
Are hard places.
Sterile surfaces
And unfamiliar noise
Reflect and bounce;
Jagged and disorienting.

The alarm sounded,
And the nurse stood
Highlighted in the doorway.
A strong Spanish shadow
Commanding and matronly,
“Breathe” she said,
Pulling me away
From the twilight.

I watched the nurses closely,
Gauging them for strength.
(I didn’t look once
At their ankles.)
How many of them were mothers?
Did they share some secret?
I was now a woman
Without a womb
… or a mother.

Escaping the hospital bed
I noticed my ankles –
Swollen like her’s.
Edema.
Proof of immobility.
Then I was wobbling,
On over sized feet
Crammed in snoopy slippers.
Stepping away from the nurse,
I began my journey forward.