Yarrow House

Available Light

                        —for my mother 

I picture you in a hazy room, 
barred sunlight rustling the dust. 
What backdrop to use to frame 
your soft, startled competence? 
A stray gesture is appropriate: 
how you half-raise your arm, 
the subtle turn of wrist. 
From whatever angle, shadows 
cross your face, your eyes, 
half hide your mouth, reveal your hands 
folding a towel smaller and smaller. 

A dramatic, shadowed portrait 
might catch your suave assurance, 
your sleek maneuvering through bureaucratic 
shoals, how you rose, not without effort, 
above your education, far above 
your childhood depression shack, 
and the early years of struggle. 
So smooth and persistent. 

But this is only what I’ve seen. 
How my father spoke of you 
tells of years packed away like treasures, 
half-remembered, secreted in unused rooms.
I finger through shreds of gingham, calico; 
wrap you lightly in cut-down clothes, 
imagined caresses, the rooster 
chasing you while you heaved 
chunks of wood at it. When he came home, 
he killed the rooster for you, 
defender of your peace, and agitator. 

You stand slightly off center, watching 
sun paint the peeling walls in damask. 
The dim light might easily obscure 
the abandoned child, the African adventurer, 
the eater of hot peppers. Now you laugh. 
Chameleon light slips along the walls. 

I can’t find the proper distance 
for a full-length portrait. And what about 
your back: discrete hint of sensual strength. 
Or how to catch the hint of tension 
between your voice and smile, 
or the spirit rising up your throat.
				

Published in The Immigrant, Court Street Press, Seattle: 1984

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Onetime reproduction for non-resale purposes permitted by the author with the following credit line:  by Judith Yarrow