great, great, great, great
Home from the night shift at Ma Bell you wake us up make breakfast for me and Lisa You always have rye toast and beer calories for the little bit of stomach left to you I never want toast until I smell what’s coming from the toaster Then I have to have it You give me bites of yours You send us off to school, you sleep we’re home for lunch, you spoon spaghetti-o’s into our bowls You let us dip our sandwiches, grilled cheese, into ketchup Such a tall, ancient, bony old lady eyes big behind Coke-bottle glasses papery skin flaked like snow I never broke that blue bookend, just looking at its plastic seashells made it fall apart I didn’t mind you spanking me That didn’t even hurt Your bird claw hand squeezing my shoulder shaking your anger out at me, squinting your eyes you tell me that you’re going to sell me to the Indians (Where, between your sparkle and your smile?) Days off, you take us on the El downtown to the racetrack, teach us how to place our bets to the high-domed library we leave with armloads of books to restaurants with fancy napkins tell them to light the candles, bring the cake sing the song, it’s our birthday, always We left you when I was nine, nothing lined up after that. I saw you once a year, at Christmas, seated on the couch like a queen, telling people to get your purse, your drink. You weren’t the sun. You were the moon and stars to me you made me welcome to this world you made me wanted. Then you were gone, bony claw and all. I retrieved your rickety pine rocking chair. Lashed to the back of the van, its foam cushions disintegrated in the rain. Days drifted the frame away from me.
— by Lisa Sarasohn (based on conversation with Laura Frisbie)