I would never leave the house in a half-sewn dress. And I would never post an untried piece of writing. It first needs the paring down and polish of a few workshops. But recycling old writing...well, I'm not above that.
I wrote this poem years ago, when struggling with my hatred of poetry. Don't worry, we've reconciled. Now I only vaguely dislike poetry and occasionally, on holidays, I let it take the children to its parents' house.
The Wallpaper
My two great aunts stand
positioned around the room like pillars
blouses untucked and shirt-sleeves rolled up
past their dimpled elbows. Armed with sharp scrapers
the cousins and I wait for Uncle Julius
to spray our section of wall with steaming water
from the dull gray cylinder. We wait
while the water soaks in and the flat smell of the hot
damp paper radiates out from the wall.
It is hard work
this scraping away of memories
gouging with metallic force into layers of life.
It makes our shoulders ache.
Aunt Marie hums while she works
imagining how the new walls will look.
In only four short years she will leave this house
alone with its empty footsteps, whispers of laughter
the Thees and Thous of Uncle Julie’s formal prayers
drifting through the air like motes of dust
ghosts of child cousins playing in the creek out back.
The afternoon sun swings around the room
in a dusty golden arc. Uncle Julie’s large white sideburns
stand out like exclamations against his work-reddened cheeks.
What a wonderful mess we are
arms covered in clots of colored paper
feet hidden by the soggy curls that slide off our scrapers.
I will remember the rustle and noise, the piles of scraps.
And sharp-eyed Aunt Elaine who once complimented me
on the shape of my nail beds and the way she stands back,
nods, and approves of the delicate clusters of rosebuds
covering the scrolls of new wallpaper
that lie like promises in the hallway.
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| Reason I Didn't Write Yesterday: I'm Stuck |
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