I remember
my mother canning
her tomatoes, her strawberries,
and always the mess of it
would show up on her apron
as stains.
As if she wore her menses
on the outside of her belly,
harbored her moods,
humored and cured them,
made them dark enough
to take the shade of blood.
Behind my back the same soup
simmers with what
a woman adds day by day—
leftovers, heels of bread,
a bit of meat taken from the plate
of a child.
It’s her sleeve of margarine
unwrapped from the bar—
a yellow paper she’s saving
to grease a pan.
It’s her fat needle
darned the socks for the last war.
It’s her stash of pennies
we counted out in the cigar store,
pointing to a pack of sweet tarts
or a candy necklace.
The greasy man
who pumped our gas
gave Mother her next piece
of blue rock china.
God knows she lived off patience
to grow that set
straight from the Mobil station
with its winged horse
on Sunnyside Road—
red sun rising, red sun setting,
red sun gone.
my mother canning
her tomatoes, her strawberries,
and always the mess of it
would show up on her apron
as stains.
As if she wore her menses
on the outside of her belly,
harbored her moods,
humored and cured them,
made them dark enough
to take the shade of blood.
Behind my back the same soup
simmers with what
a woman adds day by day—
leftovers, heels of bread,
a bit of meat taken from the plate
of a child.
It’s her sleeve of margarine
unwrapped from the bar—
a yellow paper she’s saving
to grease a pan.
It’s her fat needle
darned the socks for the last war.
It’s her stash of pennies
we counted out in the cigar store,
pointing to a pack of sweet tarts
or a candy necklace.
The greasy man
who pumped our gas
gave Mother her next piece
of blue rock china.
God knows she lived off patience
to grow that set
straight from the Mobil station
with its winged horse
on Sunnyside Road—
red sun rising, red sun setting,
red sun gone.
© Judith Skillman All Rights Reserved