She Walks in Beauty_ A Woman's Journey Through Poems - Caroline Kennedy [29]
Passing
Passing years
Tears enough to drown me
But I swim
Because mommy must be strong
To live the lesson
I chose to teach her
How to define herself
And she
Letting slide
The forgotten holiday concert
The endless conference call
She is already strong
First with elaborate drawings
in bright markers
Determined, she scribbles
She is proud of me
Then one day
The greeting-card moment
She wants to be just like her mother
And I wonder
Who wouldn’t choose that?
What’s That Smell in the Kitchen?
MARGE PIERCY
All over America women are burning dinners.
It’s lambchops in Peoria; it’s haddock
in Providence; it’s steak in Chicago
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning
food they’re supposed to bring with calico
smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, it’s
her husband spitted over a slow fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
it’s a dead rat with a bomb in its belly
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested,
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam.
Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.
Father Grumble
FOLK SONG
There was an old man who lived in the wood
As you can plainly see,
Who said he could do more work in one day
Than his wife could do in three.
“If this be true,” the old woman said,
“Why, this you must allow:
You must do my work for one day
While I go drive the plow.
“And you must milk the Tiny cow
For fear she will go dry,
And you must feed the little pigs
That are within the sty.
“And you must watch the speckled hen
Lest she should lay astray,
And you must wind the reel of yarn
That I spun yesterday.”
The old woman took the staff in her hand
And went to drive the plow,
The old man took the pail in his hand
And went to milk the cow.
But Tiny hitched and Tiny flitched,
And Tiny cocked her nose,
And Tiny gave the old man such a kick
That the blood ran down to his hose.
It’s “Hey, my good cow!” and “Ho, my good cow!”
And, “Now, my good cow, stand still!
If ever I milk this cow again,
’Twill be against my will.”
But Tiny hitched and Tiny flitched,
And Tiny cocked her nose,
And Tiny gave the old man such a kick
That the blood ran down to his hose.
And when he had milked the Tiny cow
For fear she would go dry,
Why then he fed the little pigs
That are within the sty.
And then he watched the speckled hen
Lest she should lay astray,
But he forgot the reel of yarn
His wife spun yesterday.
He swore by all the stars in the sky
And all the leaves on the tree
His wife could do more work in one day
Than he could do in three.
He swore by all the leaves on the tree
And all the stars in heaven
That his wife could do more work in one day
Than he could do in seven.
Epitaph
ANONYMOUS
(Said to have been once found in Bushey Churchyard, Hertfordshire)
Here lies a poor woman who always was tired,
For she lived in a place where help wasn’t hired,
Her last words on earth were, “Dear friends, I am going,
Where washing ain’t done nor cooking nor sewing,
And everything there is exact to my wishes,
For there they don’t eat, there’s no washing of dishes,
I’ll be where loud anthems will always be ringing
(But having no voice, I’ll be out of the singing).
Don’t mourn for me now, don’t grieve for me never,
For I’m going to do nothing for ever and ever.”
BEAUTY, CLOTHES, AND THINGS OF THIS WORLD
MY GRANDMOTHERS were the most correct and elegant women I have ever known. They always wore lipstick and perfume, they carried a handbag, even around the house, and they always dressed for dinner. Although they never broke a sweat, they were also athletic and adventurous. They were both coquettes.
My mother became famous for creating her own style, but she learned