Eldest Daughter: Poems

Woman in the Middle

50 Woman in the Middle Forgiveness of the father comes deep, announces in the bowels. The sacrum, the lower chakras relax years of resentment at once, with no warning at all from the proud mind or blindsided heart. Trumpet eight-beat F#—son’s breath, sound like fine paper tearing— unlatched the lower spine, those oldest caches of resentment. I don’t want to let this go, to open to this, even in a poem, even on paper. Downbeat. My son’s long trumpet note tore into me, I went dizzy, aghast, no blood for my face, there was a stink. Didn’t want to let go, to miss the music, the evening. No poem would choose to mention food poisoning. I stumbled out. Strangers saw my bloodless ghastly face—I was dizzy, there was that stink— they hauled me to the public bathroom. Completely on its own the body chose food poisoning, stumbled on this strange unmentionable to announce that bygones had released the future. The generation turned. A woman between two men, rushed from recital hall to bathroom, reminded: All fears, shames, loves, are finally in the body, and finally public. ...