The Listener
Miriam N. Kotzin
1. The Listener
She did not want to go to sleep,
and so Ann crept out to the hall
where wooden stairs were long and steep.
She did not want to go to sleep
or count the line of fluffy sheep
that walked beside a low stone wall.
She did not want to go to sleep,
and so Ann crept out to the hall.
She perched upon the highest stair
and leaned her head against the wall.
She sat alone and listened there.
She perched upon the highest stair,
felt safe enough, for who would care?
She held Boo close. He wouldn’t fall.
She perched upon the highest stair
and leaned her head against the wall.
What harm could come from going down
to sit upon the bottom stair
in her softest flannel gown?
What harm could come from going down
to sit unseen? What caused that frown
in Mama’s voice? Ann clutched Boo Bear.
What harm could come from going down
to sit upon the bottom stair!
2. Boo Bear
Last night Ann heard the things they said
about her mother, who had read
an extra story so she’d fall asleep
before the guests arrived. A heap
of teddy bears lay on her bed.
Boo, best beloved, lay near her head
last night, but all took turns. (She said
she loved them all.) She’d let them sleep.
Last night Ann heard.
She cuddled Boo, took care to keep
him warm and safe. The stairs were steep,
as she crept down with Boo. They said,
“Anita’s drunk again.” “She’d spread
her legs for any man.” “Trash.” “Cheap.”
Last night Ann heard.
3. Judgments
She couldn’t tell them she was there
for anything. Then Mama’s friend
was laughing, too. It wasn’t fair
to talk like this. It wouldn’t end,
but she could change her mind, ascend.
Instead, she sat Boo on the stair.
She heard them laugh and condescend.
She couldn’t tell them she was there.
They said her mother’s new black bare-
back halter dress was cheap, a trend
in fashion none of them would wear
for anything. Then Mama’s friend
agreed, said nothing to defend
her, said, “Anita made me swear ….”
and dropped her voice, “she’d pretend …,”
was laughing, too. It wasn’t fair.
“A drunk, a slut. She took a dare
to swim without a suit. She’ll end
up dead one day.” Why would they care
to talk like this? It wouldn’t end.
She was too young to comprehend
such careless treachery, to square
this talk with friendship. Mama’s friend
was telling secrets. Ann was aware
she couldn’t tell.
4. Jelly Bread
When Mama wasn’t feeling well,
she wanted to be left alone
to rest, or nap. Sometimes she’d yell
when Mama wasn’t feeling well—
or slap, or shake. She’d say, “Don’t tell
or you’ll be sorry.” Ann’s safety zone
when Mama wasn’t feeling well?
She wanted to be left alone.
What could she do when Mama said
she wanted to be left alone?
Sometimes she’d lie on her own bed.
What could she do when Mama said
to go away? She’d go ahead
and run away, live on her own.
What could she do when Mama said
she wanted to be left alone?
But what would Daddy say when he
got home tonight? He would be mad.
And sometimes Daddy would yell, too.
But what would Daddy say when he
got home? She’d wait with Boo and see.
Although she hugged him, Boo was sad.
But what would Daddy say when he
got home tonight? Would he be mad?
For supper she had jelly bread
she made—and milk she poured herself
into a grown-up cup. Instead
for supper she had jelly bread
when Daddy wasn’t home. She fed
herself. ’Cause she could reach the shelf,
for supper she had jelly bread
she made—and milk she poured herself.
5. The Fall
Her father’s gone, three weeks away—
he promised Ann he would return,
he promised he’d call every day.
Her father’s gone, three weeks away.
He made her promise to obey,
his tone was loving, sad, and stern.
Her father’s gone, three weeks away.
He promised Ann he would return.
She stood and watched her mother sleep;
she didn’t move, her skin was pale
against the rug. Without a peep
she stood and watched her mother sleep;
Was this a secret she must keep?
Her whisper snaked into a wail.
She stood and watched her mother sleep;
she didn’t move, her skin was pale.
They were alone. What should she do?
She managed to unlock the door.
An icy wind rushed in, steel blue.
They were alone. What should she do?
She stood outside and screamed for
help, Mama silent on the floor.
They were alone. What should she do?
She managed to unlock the door.
Which of the neighbors could she call?
The women’s laughter echoed still,
and filled the silent entrance hall.
Which of the neighbors could she call?
She closed the door. How did Mama fall?
And what is this? A bright red pill?
Which of the neighbors could she call?
The women’s laughter echoed still.
6. Quilt
She took her mother’s favorite patchwork quilt
and pulled it from the bed on which it lay;
she saw the stain where Mama’s wine had spilt.
And as she went, she dragged the heavy quilt
behind, a train, as she made her slow way.
She took her mother’s favorite patchwork quilt
across the hall to where she passed the gilt-
trimmed full-length mirror. There she paused halfway;
she saw the stain where Mama’s wine had spilt.
She knew the stairs were steep. She felt no guilt
in tumbling down the bulky quilt; that way
she took her mother’s favorite patchwork quilt
downstairs. She wore the quilt, a cape, atilt.
Her mother’s face stayed smooth and cool as clay.
She saw the stain where Mama’s wine had spilt.
She wrapped her mother in the heavy quilt
up to her chin to keep the cold away.
She saw the stain where Mama’s wine had spilt;
that was her mother’s favorite patchwork quilt.
7. Stars
Just one thing more she had to do
before she’d sleep. She carried Boo
downstairs to where her mother lay.
She set him down. She stopped to pray
“I lay me down,” and then withdrew.
Her ceiling stars glowed greenish blue:
She loved the swan, the dippers, too.
The ceiling stars seemed faraway—
just one thing more.
A waning gibbous moon peered through.
She felt too hot, too cold, too “too.”
A glass of water on a tray
sat by her bedside yesterday.
Tomorrow she would have to do
just one thing more.
|
