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Suellen Wedmore Page 2
Kate’s
Light
—Kate Walker:
keeper of Robbins Reef light from 1890-1919
I:
Mine is a rock-struck realm
of shifting grays and greens,
fogs, winds and tides,
of soot and stairs and
kerosene,
of being seen by barge and sail
without being known.
Mind the light, John said
as pneumonia-weak he left me
that last time, and for 29 years
I heard his voice as I tended
that caisson light, bobbing
beneath Lady Liberty's eyes.
II:
I was a single mother, then, alone
but not alone. Every morning,
at the top of the tower,
I turned west, towards John's
grave;
sometimes green, sometimes
winter white, listening,
and on Saturdays I'd put on a pan
of his favorite beans, simmered
with salt pork, molasses and
onions,
serve them to my Jacob, little
Mamie:
how sweet a meal, how filling
with brown bread and butter.
III:
The supply tender
brings flowers for my kitchen,
geraniums bloom
on my window sills,
and coffee never tastes so good
as when I sit at the wide-board
table, crafted by John,
pine salvaged from Sandy Hook
where he’d taught me the language
of his astonishing Amerika.
IV:
At night I dream of ladders
unfolding toward the sky,
fire in my pockets,
my skirt wind-kicked
as I watch dolphins
scoop the sea
below the lighthouse rail,
and the platform
blooming with violets,
forsythia, lilac.
V:
John's words
repeated
the rhythm
of waves
as I trimmed wicks,
scoured the glass
until the lens'
six-second flash
signaled
to all
a safe passage
to harbor.
VI:
Though the mainland frightened me─
all those noisy streetcars,
automobiles backfiring,
so many eyes, arms waving,
\\
what could they be thinking,
all those unreadable faces?─
I rescued fifty men,
storm-flung,
fishermen whose boats
were blown onto the reef,
the crew of a schooner
that rolled onto her side,
a baby with outstretched arms
I couldn't save,
and a small Scottie dog
with matted fur
and a quick tail
who wasn't afraid to thank me.
Learning Mantinicus Light
—Abbie
Burgess: age 17 in 1856
I’m different here,
I said, when Pa led me
up the forty-eight lighthouse
stairs
to the hungry Argand lamps─
at fourteen I'd said good-bye
to mainland friends, & Ma sick,
my sisters impish & oh, so young,
& brother Ben off fishing.
Pa trained me
as his helper. Ships depend on
us,
he'd say, & I learned to fill the
oil pan,
polish the reflector, trim the
hollow wick:
Light the lamps every night
at sun-setting, the keeper's
manual said.
Extinguish them at dawn.
Keep them bright & clear.
The Atlantic growled
around my boot-clad feet the
day
Pa sailed away to get medicine &
supplies.
Keep the light burning, Abbie, he
said,
not knowing it would be weeks
of wind & storm, surf thumping
even against the bolted
lighthouse door until he'd
return.
After he was gone,
I peered out a window to see a wave
wash over his hand-wrought coop,
threatening our pet hens. Priscilla!
I cried, racing into the surge,
& I gathered her into my arms.
Faith & Hope were
next,
until all but one were beside the
stove,
& when I looked
again, the hen house was gone.
Those who imagine snow as white
haven’t seen a nor’easter, gray
shrieking
into blizzard-black, the landing
dock
swallowed by sleet's blustery furor.
I dragged bedding up the tower
stairs,
coaxed Ma & my skittery sisters
to the lantern room
where safety smelled of whale oil
& the January cold. For three weeks
I filled those lights every four
hours,
scraped ice from the lantern’s
glass
with mittened & frost-burned hands.
We survived on eggs and dried
fruit,
& in those long weeks
no ship was lost
& from the mainland Father
saw us safe: a small light
in a vast & relentless storm.
—Mantinucus Rock Light Station is off the coast of
Rockland, Maine.
© Copyright, 2014,
Suellen Wedmore. |