USA

joffer@juno.com

AND THEIRS, THEM

We are the women of small histories/
diaries, journals, letters to our sisters/
whose mothers recited earlier accounts
while mixing turkey stuffing or brownies
in any coffee-flavored kitchen.

We are the keepers of lesser treasures/
relish recipes, songs our uncles sang,
steps to the old dances/
whose children ride the years from sharp to fading
in masks of cellophane.

We are the bearers of background memories/
his last words, her first song,
Christmas before the war/
whose grandchildren will grow
to remember us
and theirs, them.

MOTHER

Sarah was her muse, not Mary,
though she said Mary's prayers, and didn't mind
if the Pope knew nothing of runny noses.

It took her seven years to carry us.
Dad complained: she sprouted ruffles, spouted
dentist bills, cried, and was always tired.

Diapers draped our winter radiators.
(Left outside, they would turn to surfboards,
and come in dripping spume on icy knuckles.)

Her cool grey eyes drowned slowly
in the clattering, scraping mornings.
We roared out like bowling balls, socks matching,

while her sponge made its morning obeisances:
table, dishes, and whatever pablumy baby.
She didn't question it. Then.

Later, of course, she wondered what she'd done.
By then, anyone could tell her: all her children
wore mortarboards and didn't sneak

over walls or sell their bodies.
With so much to credit, you'd wonder why
her mind would seem to search behind her eyes

for some idea--unconceived, aborted, or
whose mother died at birth--which
she might have nurtured and called her own.

SOMETHING FOR ANNA

She is the woman who left the room
because her baby was crying.
Write her a poem a baby would sleep to.

She is the woman who missed the last act
taking her child to the bathroom.
Write her a play about a bathroom.

She is the woman who couldn't attend the concert
for lack of a babysitter.
Write her songs a teenager would stay home from.

She is the woman who can't remember
what it was she started to say.
Put a silence in your work
That in it she might hear her own voice.

YOU CAN'T BLAME THE POPE;
HE PROBABLY NEVER CHANGED A DIAPER

Woman was never Pope, nor will,
Nor priest to people, John Paul declares.
His Lord ordained it so: below
Their holy robes on those He chose
His Twelve's real manhood showed, Lord knows.

The Pope addressed in kindest tones
The women he knows how to be,
Although he's not. If he tried it,
He says, he would be more quiet,
When angry would always try to hide it;

Even when beaten would never fight it;
Would pray to God, Who would know what
To do, because God is a man,
And men know more, since time began:
They wrote The Book (in which we're panned).

Except for Mary, we've all been damned
Since Eve. But Mother Mary, who
Carried her screams inside her heart,
Followed her men--they were awfully smart--
And knew her role the better part.

The Pope has horse in place of cart,
Or has missed a part of what he sees,
As most men have: the sweat, the songs,
The secrets which heal a heart, the strong
Incantations, carried ages along;

The power to recognize wrong.
We are well-consecrated; already
Priested; it was birthright; our
Great-granny's as well. Thanks for your
Blessings, your fatherly dower,

But now we prefer our own true power.
Though noisy and messy, it's certainly strong
When put together, passed around, shared,
By those like Sister Teresa who dared
To stand and say how long we've cared.

© All Copyright, Judith S. Offer.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.