Elisabeth Simson

Opening the Conversation

all ordinary memories are mine:
yellow tiles of sun in the breakfast nook,
gospel prayer on her bedside radio,
early sprinkler swish, dew swell,
quilt-soft hem of her apron, crystal taste
of the heavy candy jar.

but only my mother knows
how I slept inside her, what time I woke
in the middle of the night, stretching.
only she remembers what she whispered
to her belly evenings, low lamps keeping pace
with the rocker, her steady feet humming -
or how we touched hands in the same spot
across the stretch of her skin,
her scent, her body.

after so many years of living outside each other,
we have come to believe that we have little in common.
how can I lose my mother?
even then, weeks into consciousness, I know I was listening.
I heard every syllable she said to me
and I would speak them back to her now
if only I knew how to make those sounds.

Women's Studies

we cut this trail through the jungle ourselves,
machetes carefully balanced in cloth bound hands,
finger spines curled and flexing.

nights around the fire we unwrap our bandages,
mark the novellas blooming in crimson palm lines,
pressed onto paper by the pale curve of flames, leaping.

we update our maps, T-square the distance,
sight thin lines like scars, each cut
a new syllable braided into the thick rope
slung over our shoulders, anaconda of wisdom
we‰re birthing a step at a time, heavy and dangerous.

everything is useful. even sleep,
which we drink dreamless and singing.