From a Fischer-Price shapes sorter, I pull
chiffon scarves I’ve stuffed into the square
hole. The sheer red: color of an opened heart
on the table, color of a vase of roses—a color
he cannot name. Red I say, rounding my arm up
& letting go at the height of it, to watch him
fixed on the way the lines of the fabric
float down around the edges of some invisible shape.
It pools there on the hardwood. & the waiting
is deafening. As if from those fibers something
will rise. I want to tell him I am no more a mother
than a magician, pulling colored scarves from a bucket,
the artful task of trying to pull words from his throat:
hand over fist, fishing out the soundless syllables,
red tongue tied to yel-low moon knotted, blue like water
—but he holds them fast between his teeth
& mutes each color with the tip of a starry hold,
even as they slide down around his face,
his mouth tied off at the corners—
& his eyes, writ with the darkness of the world
as if to say, What. What do you want from me.
Tags: jessica martinez, poems, poetry
The spillover from verse to verse just…*moves* so wonderfully, and the tightness at the end! Your writing is lovely.
Yeah. Dealing with that with my son. Thank you for this.
When I got to the end of this I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time. I realized this because it came rushing out all at once when I got to the last line. *oof*
This is really lovely. Thank you.
this is beautiful – thank you!
Wow. This is so beautiful.
I don’t know that I “get” poetry, but I loved this.
Yeah, oof is right. I’m so glad I read this.
This is so beautiful. <3 you mama
Came for the Harpo image, stayed for the lovely poem.
That last line. Dang.