My mother names me
She marries the lion and moves a degree less north.
The heavens tempt her with smorgasbords
of grey – battleship, cloud, Arctic, slate – but she clings
to the promise and memory of sun. It is June 1963.
West Indies up in de muddah country and Sir Gary blasts
a half-dozen sixes into lore: First Test. Second Test: behind
the ironing board in front the flickering black-and-white
she feels no pain—her eyes, all eyes fixed on Wes and his labour
at Lords, sleeves rolled, shirttail out, annihilating the home crowd
(the fortress of linen presses itself). That evening, beneath the oak
at the entrance to the maternity home, it is her collapse
that brings nurses running, fielding, hands clasping,
cradling. Their daughter
is named for curls of laughter in a corner shop back Home.
The recollection like a keepsake of sunshine; blanket and fast ball
against gun-metal sky.
Colour, TV
We were still at school (our bodies at least) when he arrived.
We crunched the two mid-winter miles to find the house ablaze
with colour TV set—our first! Amazing how it made us forget
the numb of our extremities and classrooms upsets, dismiss
the old black-and-white, make room for shiny plaything that springs
panthers to life! Drawn to flame, we watch content with mother,
moth-like, wings a-thawing as she presses a fortress round us: uniforms,
knickers, sheets, shirts in warm, starched stacks. In the background—
the wireless, another hearth, drowned out now by slick, wordless bop
from a brand new box. Funny how Technicolor made a trickster trickier,
and how two brown moths viewed him not as animal, pink or cartoon
but as super. Human. Black. Dude, any way it’s swung
he’s the first cool cat I clapped dark eyes on.
Voyager, now
Eighteenth century Jeanne Baré drops the feminine from her name,
stows away so she can be with Philibert and sail the seven seas.
Two botanists in love (for that is what they were)—the world unfurling
before them like a bud. In South America, Jean(ne) espies the specie
first. The burst of colourful bract, the glabra. Names the whole caboodle
for the captain of the ship—one Louis Antoine de Bougainville (after all,
it was his rig)—and for Spain (well, because it was their gig.) And so
it turns problematic: What were the thousand ancient native words to capture
all shade of paper flowers? There was no telling. If Jean(ne) set sail again
today, what would be the tag? But she gets her man and a Wiki note:
first woman to circumnavigate globe. Eighteenth century ownway women
my side of the tree: what were you up to? What voyage, now? Who you?
I ask the same of my mother and of the boogies
when I see them breaking loose.
Disappearing acts
I see my mother
in the garden.
It mirrors her
decline, the wilting
pride of Buhbayduss,
star fruit, vanishing
bay leaf, lime, cherry—
barely a pick for
the keen-eyed birds.
Skeletal hibiscus
does its best.
Once in a while, the wall
of weeds and wild grass
on the vacant lot
gets whacked and
every car, bike and truck
machs by in plain view.
In the garden,
this side of the fume,
I see only blighted
badass Julie
mango bearing now—
and madly,
in season and out.
Purple orchid still elicits
oohs and aahs,
bougainvillea, too,
shedding without warning
its faded bracts,
distracting us
with fresh acts
of defiance
against time
and engines racing
in slow motion...
my mother staring
into spaces, her silences
a creeping vine
variegated
with occasional blooms
of ripe language
and late-summer
smiles.
All in the family
I try not to rattle
as she rattles off
names—
Mae!
Ma!
Daddy!
Mae!
Esme, Esme
Erma!
Each uttered in urgent tones—expectant, like a disgruntled shopper demanding to see the manager.
Mae! she calls again. Her dear late aunt. Esme and Erma are dear aunts, too, but it is Mae—the one born with a caul, who could see things, who babysat and doted on and protected her nieces and nephew, played with them and brought them down to the beach, brought them sugar cakes and comforts—that she’s hollering for. I wonder idly if she and Mae are seeing more of each other these days.
Mae...?
Leonard? (The brother.)
Daisy? (That’s the sister)
Henry. (Oh, Lord, that’s the uncle!)
And now she’s calling for her husband—my father! So far down the bill?
She does not call for her mother or father again.
Her voice rises: Ruby!
(Ruby? Who the hell‘s that? There are no Rubys this side of the tree. Far as we know.)
Who’s Ruby, Mum?
Fretful, she ignores me, hollers for Mae again; then for Cyrilene.
Cyrilene’s not here today, I say of her carer, my voice choking with effort. Customer service ain’t easy.
Sancha? She calls my sister’s name now, desperate but tinged with hope.
She turns away to face the window, shifts the curtain, peers outside.
Sancha???
I sigh. And step into my sibling’s shoes.
Yes?
She turns to me with smiles and bell-like tones. Hellooo!
Hello, I say... would you like some help?
Yes!
She is delighted. We both are.
I finish help my mother dress, make mental notes to change the names.
