"My Mother Turns Fifty" copyright2011AmyJoSprague
a new poem about the death of my father, his alcoholism, and losing him but finding, somehow, peace and grace
It's In the Little Pieces
I catch you in reflections--the small ones
that hint at a sense, be it smell or taste or touch
the smell of your sweat, bent over the tractor
the taste of Old Style on my small lips, just a sip
the feel of your long arms twice around me
a hint of pink in a blossom falling
to the grass--your cheeks alive
a light refracting on water, just a ripple--
your eyes, blue, calling to me from somewhere I've
vaguely dreamed about, a sanctuary of sorts
where I was once somebody's
then a reflection of myself, this body
I am your limbs, your high cheekbones
when it's quiet
I see all the pieces of you
I hear you as a hush behind me--
a piece of home I'd forgotten in my dreams--
I hear the wind from when we spread
your ashes on the river, followed by pink petals
we plucked from dark stems
I think of you
as mine, once briefly
and I was yours and that
makes my chest ache in
some way its never known,
it's deep and young;
all the what if's
what if you had stayed
what if you had known the
world you couldn't keep us in
wasn't any worse than the new
one you'd turn us over to
that yours was so much more safer
you tried to get us back
you cried in front of our new
dad, I heard you daddy I heard you
from the kitchen, your soft
shaking voice pleading
drunk with a slurred tongue
and this would
always be enough for us--
because it was the best we'd ever get
you walked away
you lived in your car, the last we'd heard
I didn't understand myself then--I
didn't know I was locking that
piece of you inside
because,
for one clear moment,
I was wanted.
You tried to put us into pieces
you could hold onto--
faded photos of us
in your wallet
gentle, shy, scared father
I loved you
You're in all these little pieces
around me and inside,
never absent now
as you rustle and hush
through petals at my feet.
copyright2011AmyJoSprague
Daddy's Game
I imagine you must've shut
yourself off somehow--the way
you'd eventually teach me to do--
before you entered my door
like a king's shadow
I hear the scrape of your jeans,
your hands hot and big like swings.
I'm young so I love you. I do as you say.
You blow smoke in my face.
Now, here, I slip
because you taught me how to shut off--
how to die inside,
and I have only memories
of my body--
fear, arousal, panic and pain,
death around every corner,
shh girl shh
I hid so well I lost me
in this confusion of a woman
trying to bud from
what's already been picked.
copyright 2011 Amy Jo Sprague
Here is something I wrote about my Mother passing away - comments welcome -
The Memory of my Mother v2 8/22/09
I have been losing you all my life
In bits and chunks,
Sometimes for years at a time.
Gone from my days.
Gone from my nights.
When you actually left this life
It was more not a blow to me -
More like a puff of air
Barely rustling the curtains.
Practice makes perfect, so they say.
I have been practicing my grief for decades.
It is not fresh and raw.
Rather seasoned, routine.
All the sharp edges worn smooth.
“How sad for you” a friend said,
But I thought, “this is an old feeling,
One I’ve become accustomed to.”
I lost her long ago.
How can I grieve
Over losing something
So insubstantial?
My post-confessional poetry can be found here:
Difficult Degrees (my poetry)
"My Mother Turns Fifty" copyright2011AmyJoSprague
a new poem about the death of my father, his alcoholism, and losing him but finding, somehow, peace and grace
It's In the Little Pieces
I catch you in reflections--the small ones
that hint at a sense, be it smell or taste or touch
the smell of your sweat, bent over the tractor
the taste of Old Style on my small lips, just a sip
the feel of your long arms twice around me
a hint of pink in a blossom falling
to the grass--your cheeks alive
a light refracting on water, just a ripple--
your eyes, blue, calling to me from somewhere I've
vaguely dreamed about, a sanctuary of sorts
where I was once somebody's
then a reflection of myself, this body
I am your limbs, your high cheekbones
when it's quiet
I see all the pieces of you
I hear you as a hush behind me--
a piece of home I'd forgotten in my dreams--
I hear the wind from when we spread
your ashes on the river, followed by pink petals
we plucked from dark stems
I think of you
as mine, once briefly
and I was yours and that
makes my chest ache in
some way its never known,
it's deep and young;
all the what if's
what if you had stayed
what if you had known the
world you couldn't keep us in
wasn't any worse than the new
one you'd turn us over to
that yours was so much more safer
you tried to get us back
you cried in front of our new
dad, I heard you daddy I heard you
from the kitchen, your soft
shaking voice pleading
drunk with a slurred tongue
and this would
always be enough for us--
because it was the best we'd ever get
you walked away
you lived in your car, the last we'd heard
I didn't understand myself then--I
didn't know I was locking that
piece of you inside
because,
for one clear moment,
I was wanted.
You tried to put us into pieces
you could hold onto--
faded photos of us
in your wallet
gentle, shy, scared father
I loved you
I loved you
You're in all these little pieces
around me and inside,
never absent now
as you rustle and hush
through petals at my feet.
copyright2011AmyJoSprague
Daddy's Game
I imagine you must've shut
yourself off somehow--the way
you'd eventually teach me to do--
before you entered my door
like a king's shadow
I hear the scrape of your jeans,
your hands hot and big like swings.
I'm young so I love you. I do as you say.
You blow smoke in my face.
Now, here, I slip
because you taught me how to shut off--
how to die inside,
and I have only memories
of my body--
fear, arousal, panic and pain,
death around every corner,
shh girl shh
I hid so well I lost me
in this confusion of a woman
trying to bud from
what's already been picked.
copyright 2011 Amy Jo Sprague
Here is something I wrote about my Mother passing away - comments welcome -
The Memory of my Mother v2 8/22/09
I have been losing you all my life
In bits and chunks,
Sometimes for years at a time.
Gone from my days.
Gone from my nights.
When you actually left this life
It was more not a blow to me -
More like a puff of air
Barely rustling the curtains.
Practice makes perfect, so they say.
I have been practicing my grief for decades.
It is not fresh and raw.
Rather seasoned, routine.
All the sharp edges worn smooth.
“How sad for you” a friend said,
But I thought, “this is an old feeling,
One I’ve become accustomed to.”
I lost her long ago.
How can I grieve
Over losing something
So insubstantial?
My post-confessional poetry can be found here:
Difficult Degrees (my poetry)