I see her now—
There framed in the window.
Her hands wrist deep in dough.
Thick hands, hands like tree trunks.
Hands that carry.
She’s watching off into somewhere,
somewhere other than the yellow house
with the blue curtains.
A rosary in the pit of her apron
dents her left thigh.
Flour wafts up
Like a curl.
She prays for me,
She prays for us all.
4 comments:
I'm off to san francisco until Friday. I look forward to reading your poetry when I return.
Brandi
I really like the repetition of "hands" in the first stanza. It gives the last line of the stanza so much power. I get a strong sense of recollection/regret from your characters but nothing is ever really mentioned of the past. You use the present to let the reader figure the past for themselves and in this poem there's a sadness that hangs over the scene. The last two lines are powerful in that the mother seems powerless and has to ask for a higher power (as set up by the rosary) for help. As always, I am blown away!
Like your previous poem, "ritual," you offer another voyeuristic speaker, one who seems to be watching a mother carrying so much weight on her shoulders. Those hands that carry, those eyes that seem to be watching something beyond what is in front of her face, and the prayers all point towards this character that Brent notes in his comment. It's a powerful and haunting portrait, and the emotional weight of this poem is on par with those you've been posting since day one.
Enjoy San Francisco, Brandy!
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