Mary McCall - A Dream With My Great-Grandmothers

A Dream with My Great-Grandmothers

These women, stories finally made flesh,
sit across from me on an upholstered couch.
Helen folds her hands upon her prayer’s knees.
Margaret offers me a piece of heaven-scraping cake.

Sitting across from me on an upholstered couch,
they ask about me, how my grandparents are doing.
Margaret offers another piece of heaven-scraping cake.
I’m careful to mind my language and hemline.

They ask about my mother, how my grandparents are doing.
I ask Margaret if she threw sheet ropes out the window,
was careful to mind her language and hemline,
and lindy-hopped to Benny Goodman with men.

I ask Margaret if she really threw sheet ropes out the window,
if she wore three gold rings during WWI
and lindy-hopped to Benny Goodman with men
who kissed her gloved hands goodnight.

She wore three gold rings during WWI
because she couldn’t say no to soldiers
who kissed her gloved hands goodnight.
Helen attended politicians’ wakes on Sunday afternoons

because she couldn’t say no as a socialite.
Helen frowns at my denim skirt and black Chucks,
this woman who attended politicians’ wakes in the city
where skyscraper sunlight caught red highlights in her hair.

Both frown at my denim skirt and black Chucks,
but I can see past their chiffon blouses and A-line skirts—
Sunday sunlight catching red highlights in their hair—
to their Irish-whiskey tempers, their fiery words.

I can see past their chiffon blouses and A-line skirts—
these women who lived through wars and Depression—
to their Irish-whiskey tempers and fiery words
that burn the throat and linger on the tongue.

These women lived through wars and Depression,
one whose husband’s lungs filled with smoke
that burns the throat and lingers on the tongue;
the other whose husband’s heart decided to stop.

One whose husband’s lungs filled with smoke
and she forgot the ways his lips moved around her name;
the other whose husband’s heart decided to stop
one day at the corner on 42nd and Fifth Avenue

and she forgot the way his lips moved around her name.
So she scrambled for other bits, other pieces of him. 
One day, at the corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue,
I paused by the butter-yellow begonias at Bryant Park.

I scramble for other bits, other pieces of them,
but their words are only those they gave me.
I paused by the butter-yellow begonias at Bryant Park
and thought of Helen reading in her Manhattan apartment.

Their words are only those they gave me,
these women, flesh finally made into stories.
Helen reads beside me in her Manhattan apartment,
then folds her hands, gets down on her prayer’s knees.


Mary McCall is an assistant professor of English at North Dakota State University. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in Mezzo Cammin, Chantarelle's Notebook, and elsewhere.

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