Eldest Daughter: Poems

In Which I Forgive My Mother Her Intentions

9 In Which I Forgive My Mother Her Intentions Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom the power and the glory forever amen For two thousand years, folks have been saying amen to that, repeating the lives and the names of the saints as orthodox charms to stave off the evil that seems to swell out of every gritty lump of real earth. My family’s no exception, but in the way gold is teased out of lead by the philosopher’s stone, my mother baked bread that could rub the pain off a wet November day, a yeast bread we’d wait hours for, watching it rise the way we hoped a man would one day rise out of the crowd and lead us away from all this. We’d drop our names to take on his. By that one meek sacrifice, we’d inherit the earth, mount up on wings like eagles, and with his help control the evil born in our woman-flesh. Three daughters in one house. More evil than one father and mother could handle and still get the daily bread on the table. Three sisters—the Fates, the Triune Goddess (earthunderworld -sky), the virgin-mother-crone trinity. Amen, we’d snicker, to whatever witch-hint whispered the name we knew in secret, the hidden life we’d none of us lead openly. Flesh will lead you astray, our father assured us: The evil flesh is heir to assumes many names— greed, carnality, sloth. Our mother agreed. But it was bread she’d turn our idle hands to, her mother’s recipe, her grandmother’s, a mancatching spell (his heart, through his stomach). It called for things of earth: 10 butter, cakes of yeast, fresh-milled grain that even smelled of earth— oats, barley, wheat, sometimes rye when the mood took her. She’d lead our squeamish hands through the sticky first steps, the kneading. A man’s hands would be too heavy, she’d say, laying damp cheesecloth like a veil over the deep crock bowl. The firm little knot of bread dough hunkered in the curve like an egg. Hours later, she’d call our names— the bowl rim would bulge over with honeycomb bread dough. Miracle of earth, not heaven. My mother meant to lead us toward my father’s god, away from evil. But her recipes bore the names of too many mothers, her womb, too many daughters. We praise her. Amen. ...