At the Supermarket, and: The Weavers
- At the Supermarket, and: The Weavers
At the Supermarket
When I was twelve and ripening like a green-gold Anjou pearI was ashamed of my body—the bleeding timesthe hair suddenly sprouting in new places.I hunched over my swelling breasts.I did not want to be Ruthie, buxom and bouncing.
On that spring day when the elms were singingwith robins and sparrows, when I was wearingmy tan ruΔed pinafore, with my hair in two long braidsmy mother sent me to the new supermarket,the first in town, with bright metal casespiled with tomatoes, melons, pyramids of apples.Women pushed carts with their babies strappedsafely in front like ships' figureheads.
I was carrying out the Wonder Bread in its brown paper bagwhen he moved swiftly behind and then alongside methrust his left hand round my breast and squeezed itthen glided silently out through the swinging doors.
I stood still, like stone.I could not hear the ker-ching of cash registersor the hum of the overhead neon lights.I could not see the women pushing their carts.
I became a silver fish swimming down downdeep into the dark green waterwhere there was no light no air [End Page 66] where I could bury myself in the silent ocean bedwhere the drowned ships and sailors lay.I wanted to stay.I needed to breathe.
When I came up the store lights were glaring.Someone was announcing Attention all Shoppers.I told myself, "You must never tell anyone, ever.Forget it and soon it will never have happened."I swung the doors open and pushed myself out.
The Weavers
Looms and spindlesneedles and pins.When we were young girlswith smooth-veined handsand opal breastswe could spin straw into goldto lay at the feet of our princeswhose Yes we covetedabove all caresses.
When we were matronswith bands of goldon our slender fingersand silent lipswe wove our bonesinto daughters and sonsand these our radiant treasures we laidbefore our lords who rode the seaswhile we good women good wivesdid weave by day and unravel by nightand forgot the sounds of our names. [End Page 67]
When we were grandamswith sapient handsand patient breastswe looped our threadsinto silken skeinsof granddaughters and grandsonsthen on the warp of timeand the weft of whenwe wove the song of our own names.Yes.Looms and spindlesneedles and pins. [End Page 68]
Ruth Kramer Baden's book, East of the Moon (Ibbetson Street press 2011), won the Massachusetts Center for the Book's prize, "Must Read Poetry Book of 2011." She recently had poems appear in Appalachia, Light, Tikkun, and Salamander. For many years she taught "How to Understand and Enjoy Poetry" at Brandeis University's Adult Learning Institute (BOLLI) and other senior venues. She is 88 years old.
