USA

rferrarelli@earthlink.net 

Linens

Plain weaves, twills and herringbones,
woven at home linen on linen, linen
on cotton. Some are still uncut--a band
of warp threads separating one napkin,
one towel from the other--but most are decorated
with needlepoint lace. My mother’s older sister
had the broad back and strong constitution
to bend for hours, working the pedals, arms
stretching to send the shuttle scuttling through.
My mother, the more delicate one, the one
who wanted to get away, sat where the light
fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads
her sister had worked into a tight fabric,
restructured the space with floss, white on white
openwork borders, arabesqued windows.
Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving
were meant to survive soaking in hot water
and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine
wash them and when the weather is good,
hang them outside, the way women still do over there,
stretching them into shape while damp. Most
are holding up well; a few show signs of wear,
but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk
for so many years that weakened the fabric.

Dreams of America

The sky was blue and cloudless the day
the gingham dresses came, the light
unfettered by screens filling the window,
my mother opening the cloth-wrapped box
eager for what news these messengers brought
from that other world. And as they emerged
from their white cocoons, creased, stiff with sizing,
she held them up to the light, marveled
at the bright improbable colors,
wondering aloud: "Are these meant for me,
have they forgotten what it's like here?"
amazed they would think she could wear
peach and white, white and apple-green,
yet holding each dress in turn against her--
square neckline, sleeves like budding wings--
lost in the mirror, trying on as well,
maybe, the life that went with them.
In the dream I dream for her, the one
who stayed behind, she stands on the porch
of a brick house, like the one her father
would buy on Belasco Avenue, with a yard
and small rounded bushes, or walks alone
and anonymous in the crowd of a city street.
She doesn't lower her eyes, and she smiles,
whenever she feels like it, no longer afraid
of compromising herself, of unleashing the evil eye.

The Day of the Funeral

No flames leap in the hearth,
the coals spent, the stone
swept clean. The people gone,
who pressed against the walls;
the relatives, who left her behind
to spare her. Alone, the child waits,
waits for someone to come,
watches from the shadows
the bright innocent light
cut across the empty bed,
carve new rooms out of the old ones,
silent and blank. She cannot go
past the threshold, imagine a life
without the light of her eyes,
without hands that move, feet.
Soon, she will leave for good
the home where she grew to the age
of reason, the age of grief. But now
she waits for someone to come,
inhabiting the still place
before the crossing, the light,
pure and colorless, and cold as marble.
A sigh, a white silent scream
gets lost in it. There is no room for pity.
Her life before that moment freezes,
begins to fade imperceptibly.
Everything looks the same, nothing
is the same. Her mother is gone.
Gone--a mouth, a window
through which the spirit leaves.

These poems are included in HOME IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY
(Eadmer Press), copyright 1996.

© Copyright 1996,  Rita Ferrarelli.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.