My Mother Rose from the Dead
days after mourners whispered and wailed
their farewells. Her lungs were now pure,
her mood magnanimous. She forgave me
for roaming all over the country to find
myself, smoking even more than she did.
My mother’s return was a miracle. As tubes
hung from her nose, as the oxygen tank
pumped away, Dad vowed she would get well.
Those idiot doctors were dead wrong
about the cancer, he said. It was just a nasty
cough, and by God, once Mom recovered,
they would fly first class to Jamaica,
just as they had planned thirty years ago,
before Dad’s work consumed us all, before
Mom began to chain smoke, before she sank
into melancholy.
Back from the dead, Mom will once again
breathe, rev up for a fresh start. She will
no longer remain in her chenille robe all day,
smoking, watching soaps. Dad will no longer
work so late. My kid brother will not succumb
to an early, dismal marriage, and I, the difficult
daughter, will stop writing the same goddamned
poem over and over again.
What My Poetry Critique Group Does Not Know About Me
I still have the Jesus statue prize for smartest girl in first grade. It turned out to be the highlight of my academic life.
I avoid writing or reading poems peppered with bugs, trees, bees, butterflies, birds, flowers, mythological gods or obscure 14th century heroes.
Sometimes, I pretend to understand a difficult poem.
I bypass PBS period dramas about royalty to belly laugh at King of Queens reruns.
The best poem I ever wrote: my aunt singing The Party’s Over as she left her bungalow before moving to assisted living. I say this despite a colleague’s whisper: not another poem about her aunts.
At poetry readings, I try to appear thoughtful and deep, not focused on my hair or whether the angle of my face makes my nose look big.
When I read scholarly interviews with renowned poets, I often feel stupid.
This is when I crave a plate of rigatoni smothered in red sauce.
I suspect I am really a prose writer with a short attention span.
I suspect I write poetry to exorcise old wounds. I dwell too much on my mother. Will she rise from the dead to forgive me?
With every rejection, I am nine again, sinking low in the seat as Mary Lou shares my diary with the entire school bus.
With every acceptance, the school bus derails. I rise, leave the bus, hopeful about immortality.
Irene Fick is the author of The Wild Side of the Window (Main Street Rag) and The Stories We Tell (Broadkill Press). Both received first place awards from the National Federation of Press Women. Irene’s poems have been published in such journals as Delmarva Review, Poet Lore, Gargoyle, The Broadkill Review and The Blue Mountain Review. Her flash nonfiction has appeared in River Teeth Journal, The Schuylkill Valley Journal and Hippocampus.