Pamela L. Laskin
Silver Roses
To Rachel Wetzsteon
She was only
forty years younger
then the other self–
the shadow
that crept out of the casket,
and yearned
to own a life
of luxury
because the earth is fertile
the oceans Olympic
the sky so large
it can’t be measured.
The one
who stayed behind
could never figure out
why April showers
linger into May,
why May was never as warm
as promised,
why love could leave
as quickly as a season
if not before;
she had no patience
for winter to defrost
because winter was her wardrobe
(though not her words)
even in summer.
Jigsaw Puzzle
To Steven Laskin, my cousin
The pieces
no longer fit,
legs splayed on bed
like an abandoned excavation,
arms unmoored
flap wildly in the air,
trying to say something,
but the mouth won’t move;
tongue wags
like a hungry dog.
And the hands
doctor’s hands–
a neurologist
whose broken body
now dozens of mismatched edges,
yet five feckless fingers
say hello,
not to say goodbye.
Imagine: The Pharmacist’s Profession
Imagine pills
like poppies:
sunflowers
roses,
so many colors
in Papa’s garden,
where people
plan a pilgrimage:
the Christians, the Arabs,
always the Jews,
because their bones are broken
their bodies are battered
their heads are splitting open
like a bleeding melon,
and Abba’s pills
fragrant flowers
offer a promise
if not for today
for tomorrow.
In the Nursing Home
To Mom
She slouches in the chair
whose alarm will screech
when she gets up.
“What is this?”
she shouts
indignant
that this has happened
the chair,
the bad food,
the hospital bed,
eighty-nine years of living,
and now her hands,
bruised walnuts,
can’t crack open enough
to hold a spoon.
Underground
To Steven
No longer a body
but an explosion
from a mine
that once housed
incredible reserves
of oil.
Now you can see
liquid oozing out
on the ground
of the bed,
broken pieces
so disassembled
no one
(not even a doctor)
would attempt
to take
the tubes away,
to dig
or discover
what was once
a man.
Cracked Sewer
I am so resilient
I rise like steam
to create a cloud
that never waivers in the sky,
though sometimes,
as you dig through the concrete,
there’s a break in the pipe,
and I think
I want to be held hostage
inside this smelly sewer
absorb,
all that’s been broken
for years,
and for once
not recover
the next moment,
but to penetrate the smells
stay with them
until I am ready
to be cemented back up.
Pamela L. Laskin is a lecturer in the English Department at The City College, where she directs the Poetry Outreach Center. She is the published author of five books of poetry, The Bonsai Curator, Van Gogh's Ear (Cervena Barva Press) and The Plagiarist (Dos Madres Press), the most recent, as well as five picture books and two young adult novels.
Silver Roses
To Rachel Wetzsteon
She was only
forty years younger
then the other self–
the shadow
that crept out of the casket,
and yearned
to own a life
of luxury
because the earth is fertile
the oceans Olympic
the sky so large
it can’t be measured.
The one
who stayed behind
could never figure out
why April showers
linger into May,
why May was never as warm
as promised,
why love could leave
as quickly as a season
if not before;
she had no patience
for winter to defrost
because winter was her wardrobe
(though not her words)
even in summer.
Jigsaw Puzzle
To Steven Laskin, my cousin
The pieces
no longer fit,
legs splayed on bed
like an abandoned excavation,
arms unmoored
flap wildly in the air,
trying to say something,
but the mouth won’t move;
tongue wags
like a hungry dog.
And the hands
doctor’s hands–
a neurologist
whose broken body
now dozens of mismatched edges,
yet five feckless fingers
say hello,
not to say goodbye.
Imagine: The Pharmacist’s Profession
Imagine pills
like poppies:
sunflowers
roses,
so many colors
in Papa’s garden,
where people
plan a pilgrimage:
the Christians, the Arabs,
always the Jews,
because their bones are broken
their bodies are battered
their heads are splitting open
like a bleeding melon,
and Abba’s pills
fragrant flowers
offer a promise
if not for today
for tomorrow.
In the Nursing Home
To Mom
She slouches in the chair
whose alarm will screech
when she gets up.
“What is this?”
she shouts
indignant
that this has happened
the chair,
the bad food,
the hospital bed,
eighty-nine years of living,
and now her hands,
bruised walnuts,
can’t crack open enough
to hold a spoon.
Underground
To Steven
No longer a body
but an explosion
from a mine
that once housed
incredible reserves
of oil.
Now you can see
liquid oozing out
on the ground
of the bed,
broken pieces
so disassembled
no one
(not even a doctor)
would attempt
to take
the tubes away,
to dig
or discover
what was once
a man.
Cracked Sewer
I am so resilient
I rise like steam
to create a cloud
that never waivers in the sky,
though sometimes,
as you dig through the concrete,
there’s a break in the pipe,
and I think
I want to be held hostage
inside this smelly sewer
absorb,
all that’s been broken
for years,
and for once
not recover
the next moment,
but to penetrate the smells
stay with them
until I am ready
to be cemented back up.
Pamela L. Laskin is a lecturer in the English Department at The City College, where she directs the Poetry Outreach Center. She is the published author of five books of poetry, The Bonsai Curator, Van Gogh's Ear (Cervena Barva Press) and The Plagiarist (Dos Madres Press), the most recent, as well as five picture books and two young adult novels.