Poetry Magazine, Joanne Samraney, April 2002

Poetry Magazine

Joanne Samraney

USA

Returning

Before you leave I want to tell you how
it feels to dip a tiny sponge in water
and watch your tongue search for Mother's breast.
Before you leave I want to tell you how
it feels to close my eyes as you lay naked
in pain. Once you covered your eyes while I
labored to birth the grandson named for you.
And now with you I breathe to machines ticking
your life away. You put your hand in mine
and say, "I want to go home." But, before
you leave me, please tell me how your
daughter can become her Father's mother.

(Published in Verve)

Chicken Soup

Her silence throbs like my tongue
scorched from milk, too hot;

but I begin to imagine the comfort
of her breasts against my cheek.

In the kitchen
the plucked chicken floats in a pot of hot water.

On the porcelain stove
bubbles dance around cubes of celery and onions.

Once this past week, I thought I heard her call
but the voice dissipated like hot steam on cold windows.

Leaving only a stream
streaking down my cheeks.

It will take years to soothe this scorch
of hot milk from my tongue.

(Published in Pgh. Quarterly)

Canning Tomatoes

My husband wants me
to can tomatoes with him
and suddenly I am
in that damp basement on Wayne Street.
Mother wears a stained apron.
My sister and I timidly wait
for our signal to begin,
that first slit of skin,
the exposed pulp.
Acid burns our nostrils.
Bell jars boil on a blackened stove.
Their steady clink
threaten summer's end
like this shrill of cicadas
through our screen door.
I turn to my husband
and say no.
I am afraid of not sealing
lids tight enough,
boiled water toppling,
jars shattering, smeared hands
sifting through chunks of tomatoes
not able to put the pieces
back together again.

(Published in Pgh. Press)

Holy Thursday

I think of her as I crack eggs,
my floured hands sticking to shells,
the yeast swelling inside a cup of warm water.

It is Holy Thursday, 1950.
Grandma sucks a lemon drop as we climb
the steep hill to Saint Joe's Church.
If she is tired, she never complains.

The priest blesses and breaks the host.
Her small head bows inside her black sciarpa.
The hump of her back more obvious
as she leans forward on the kneeler.
Her rosary shakes in hands that earlier shook
around a floured rolling pin

while Cousin Mary and I kneeled on wooden chairs,
cracked eggs inside the blue rim bowl, then turned
their shells down on the pasta dish to drain.
Nothing was wasted in Grandma's house.

She will brush the whites on the Easter Pizza Piano,
carve the sign of the cross in the mound of dough
ready for the oven,
"Nel nome del padre, figlio e spirito santo.
(In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirt)
Gals, fate presto per andare a chiesa!"
(hurry up for church)

Her broken English ascending
from the corners of my kitchen.

The Unwritten Poem

Still as winter's first snow,
the blank sheet holds its own poetry, unclaimed
by black periods and exclamation marks.

And so it must be with death
before the gods send their enraged phoenix
to burn and rise again.