This is the 68th morning I have brought my mother a poem with her morning meds.
Some days I wake up with a poem in mind; some days I get sucked into poetryfoundation.org or poets.org where I lose all track of time, reading dozens of poems to find one that fits both my mood and my mother's disposition.
This morning I wandered into poems about childbirth, at last settling on "Delivery Rhyme" by Dora Malech. It uses delightful internal rhyme but is not bound to a rhythm pattern. It is obscure in places, but also contains the amazing metaphor and wordplay of a newborn baby girl "unfold(ing) all those origami limbs to test the inevitable debutante bawl."
I thought it was worth a try.
My mistake (in addition to poem selection) was not measuring my mother's confidence and cognizance before reading the poem aloud. I glance up after the first stanzas and saw her scowl, darkening as I plodded to the finish.
"That one is beyond me," she said, lips pursed.
"There are lines I don't understand," I coaxed, "but I like how she expresses the cell division as the baby grows:
'the subcommittees met:
made merry in duplicate, triplicate
and so on, much of themselves, divided
and defined and concurred.'"
She shrugged, stood up, and said, "I'll get a spoon," then returned to the table with--inexplicably--a spoon, two bowls, and a plate.
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My most successful poem selections are ones my mom has read before, snippets of which are tucked into her once steely-sharp mind. When I read "Annabell Lee" or "Ballad of the Harpweaver," she chimes in, reminded of the time in her life when her brain was her favorite part of herself.
Today's poem did the opposite. It reminded her that her mind no longer allows her to juggle new sounds and images with dexterity and satisfaction.
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We somehow extricated ourselves from the failed poetry moment and moved on to discussing last night's movie: "Escape from Alcatraz." My dad said he'd liked it and retold what he found to be the most exciting scenes.
My mother did not seem to remember watching the film. She sat silently, eating her Corn Chex from her bowl without milk, without a spoon.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
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