This poem was published in Cirque‘s Winter 2015 issue.  It was written around 2001.  It remained dormant until 2015, when I decided to revise it and submit it for publication.  Despite some revision, little changed from old version to the final published version.

A side note: if you have never read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith, do yourself a favor and check out this coming-of-age classic!

Enjoy!

Joanna’s Child

 

But what makes you get a baby often

                        starts with a kiss…Remember Joanna.

                                                –Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

 

At 14, I learned that I was Joanna’s baby.

The realization was somewhere

between sixth grade,

maxi pads

and sex education.

 

I was different—

not in the typical angst way,

for I stayed out of trouble,

in a small town

where no one divorced,

where everyone went to your church,

or some church,

where everyone wanted to know you,

or at least, your business—

I was an unwedded birth when good

girls did not keep their babies.

 

I’m your mother and father,

my mother would say,

and I believed her.

I told everyone I had no father,

 

until I became older and realized

the “oh” would be followed

by the awkward nod,

a shuffle of feet,

or rattle of ice in a drinking cup,

when I told them

my parents had not married,

nor had I had any contact

with him.

 

Eventually I caught on;

it was a signal—

we could no longer be friends.

 

Later, in my college years

the questions would be more demanding:

Do you know who he is?

Wouldn’t you like to know?

Aren’t you curious?

I would lie and say no.

 

Like all of the stones that were hurled at Joanna,

I knew my mother had her scars.

 

She would remind me often that

she was a good mother

(and to the best of her ability she was),

It was her attempt to negate those who thought otherwise

because she chose to break the rules.

 

So, what “lessons” did Joanna share

with her child?

I don’t fully know her pain

(or his name),

aside from the assurances of her mothering,

the glares and the asides.

She never shared her wounds,

and the wounds from the rocks that hit me

never healed either.

 

This poem was published in Alaska Women Speak’s 2015 Winter Issue.  Written especially for their “talking over coffee or tea” issue, this one is “High Tea and Fancy Things.”

 

High Tea and Fancy Things

You choose Assam for your mother,

because you think it best resembles her tastes:

simple but brisk, a taste familiar

but bolder than her usual Lipton.

For yourself, you choose the Chinese Green Flowering Jasmine

because its fancy green leaves and rosy petals,

hand-sewn to resemble a closed flower that

open when steeped in hot water,

makes you feel sophisticated,

well-traveled and grown up in her presence.

 

She looks around in the unfamiliar Alaskan tea shop,

many miles from her small, Midwestern hometown,

its fine china teapots with matching blue and white willow

pattern tea cups and silver demitasse spoons.

You both act normal despite the delicate

three-tiered glass tower of French treats and food:

the tomato bisque, petit fours, and purple macaroons.

 

When her hand reaches for the scone.

she contemplates the small, silver knife,

the one with the curved handle

for spreading the clotted cream,

when the knife drops to the table,

a soft landing on the cloth napkin.

She looks to you and shrugs her shoulders,

grabbing the scone, dipping it into the clotted cream bowl.

 

Some things are just too fancy, she says.

And, some things need not be, you reply.

You both laugh as you shared in a moment

much prepared for, but made simple as can be.