For my maternal grandmother, Eva Richman

Mama


I still remember:
Your chubby feet at the pedal

Of your sewing machine
My young dark eyes mirror
The material that is privy
To the touch of your stubby fingers
Your round Russian face massages the
Darkness like stone
Of my swollen heart

The bells of St. John’s Church
Ring out early Sunday morning
My eyes open to the hucksters
Sing-song chant:
“Ere shrimp!” “Raw shrimp!”
I glimpse straw baskets atop
Their heads through the window
Of a lazy Southern day

My young aunt, Ethel, asleep
Upstairs, curly red hair
Peeping from a patchwork quilt
Inside her closet I pretend
I am she Slide my small
Feet into her high heels
The green knit dress hangs
To my ankles
Read her diary

Mama, you slip me pennies
From a Tetley tea can I
Run to the corner confectionary
For candy We are wed in
Our secret My pink ballet
Slippers arabesque across the
backwoods of my heart as
the smell of strudel baking
rises from your kitchen


I still remember:
A girl of sixteen, I stand
At the door of your bedroom
You draw your last breath
Gasp from your bed of pain
“Mama!” “Mama!”
and recall your words: “I
love you most, little one,
little one named after
my own Mama”