an unrehearsed universe

Songs of My Mother

She was ordinary in the way of her generation
the vigor of refugees with aspirations
mingled with a quasi-hatred of the adopted land

on the wrong side of the cusp
internalizing from women’s liberation
an uneasy mix of desire and despair

a few years later she would have burned bras
linked arms against the war taken back the night
turned her nose up at the patriarchy

instead she channeled into hearth and home
the dearth of options prescribed
by vaginal circumstances, cultural expectations.

She was ordinary in all respects
the right amount of mourning an aspect
I failed to consider

kind compassionate generous
the world was a richer place for her in it
a loss to us all irreplaceable

the eulogy pitched to the exact middle
the priest had known her face (perhaps)
but not her name or essence

the fleshy physicality of her presence
continually at odds with her ascetic remoteness
contradictory in consummate Catholic fashion.

She was ordinary even in death
old age exhaustion and cancer co-conspirators
but which stole her breath, her will to live

it was blatant cowardice I was loathe to forgive
her kindness keen, honed to exactitude
an attitude of selflessness designed to indebt

generosity overflowing conspicuously bountiful
I grew ever more cynical and knowing
beneath the shadow of her niceness

the second prong of the benevolence offensive
compassion for humanity in all its frailty:
but for men, not man.

She was ordinary even (except) to me
I cycled through love hatred the in-between
there were no wails left for the funeral

a surfeit of unpleasant memories
battling a thimbleful of good ones
I wrung myself dry long ago

whispers followed  in procession
with the hearse and the mourners
gossip made the rounds couched in concern

it might not have been an accident
how sad for the family given…
she’s been shriven (a final fiction)

at least she’s no longer in pain
as if cessation of sensation were
the main objective and death the corrective.