It should have begun with “Once upon a time,
a family member was Catholic…” and then
we all chose a flavor of protestant and kept going.
Kept preaching. Kept having families.
Kept believing.
We forgot this. Or someone took a vacation
in darker places. I can’t let it go, this rosary,
even with the label I’m half-reading in the box,
Saying “human bone.”
This is the vesicle hollow, this is the light
Thick with afternoon, with water, with trees
Making my hands look prayerful, calm—
This is horror.
It begins with “We never speak about her,
forget her children, forget unsolemnized birth;
we don’t have the pictures of this place.
Put that down.
If she picked this up, younger than I am,
thinking that it might be nice to give care
to what she could, as she could,
What care is due?
It ends with a solid fencing of my fears.
Unknown kids trail guns through the woods;
remember that when the light falls just so
It limns our ghosts.
Sharing for Magaly's prompt at Poets and Storytellers United. In this year of a thousand reminders of grief and the frangible nature of family, I find that even looking at pictures of anything removed from this present moment feels fake. How could there have ever been a time before now, before this? How could any ghost not be plastic? But after the pictures are stuffed in albums, there's still that trace of stickiness on the fingers. How could any revenant not haunt?
The above photo is authentic...
-- Chrissa
"It should have begun with “Once upon a time,
ReplyDeletea family member was Catholic…” and then
we all chose a flavor of protestant and kept going" could be the story of my family. I think. I found quite a few items in my grandmother's things that are associated with Catholicism, most of them from France. I have no idea where she got them, why she kept them, or why France. The story has no beginning, just an end. And my curiosity! Some day my decedents may wonder the same, as I kept them.
"fencing of fears" seemed to be so outstanding in this piece and too i luv the way it began with the catholicsim sipping the flavour of protestantism. All in all this just amazing.
ReplyDeleteHappy Wednesday thanks for dropping by to read mine
Much❤love
ReplyDeleteIt's strange the things we hold on to, call up when our way of life has been taken away. This morning, I took a public bus for the first time in a very long time. I was angry and anxious. There were people not wearing masks or wearing them on their chins. The whole thing felt surreal. It made me think of days when my bus ride wouldn't be perfect if I didn't have the perfect seat to read. Today, all I want is for people to wear their freaking masks and stop yelling on their phones (possibly--although, I really hope not) spreading their virus.
ReplyDeleteThe family stories that are lost in the pages of time! Generation to generation the stories used to be told around a campfire at night. Now everyone just watches TV! I loved your poem!
ReplyDeleteWhen young most families had a strange relative somewhere. Later as we grew up we finally would learn the reason or the history of this. Then later realise many had them too!
ReplyDeleteThis year has been challenging and has passed in a blur. Thank you for your share.
ReplyDeleteI love the way your poem explores the haunting of the past through brief flashes of images, with the rosary at its heart. The lines that hit me hardest were:
ReplyDelete‘This is the vesicle hollow, this is the light
Thick with afternoon, with water, with trees
Making my hands look prayerful, calm—
This is horror.’
What a stunning poem – sad, troubling, yet beautiful to read.
ReplyDelete'we chose a flavor of Protestant' snapped me to attention. My family history. I broke the chain when I converted to Catholicism. (which I have let lapse) Another amazing write, Chrissa. And, like you, it is difficult remembering "life before."
ReplyDeleteI love the first stanza - it could lead to so many different stories - it would be a good poetry prompt as well!
ReplyDeleteI think about how much unacknowledged past is too much like the restless dead from a horror movie. Some spaces hold too much to be quiet forever, no matter how much we'd like them to stay forgotten. And there will be horror accruing interest, the longer we put off dealing with it.
ReplyDeleteThat is quite a photo! Love that first stanza.
ReplyDelete