Fibroids
My father would slip a five-dollar
bill in the giant paper bag lunches
he fixed. I could buy an ice cream
for everyone. At the lunch bell
kids gathered round as if to see a live animal
as I also unpacked a pound of foil—
wrapped salami on rye. Meanwhile,
my mother in another time zone
would choose which Liz Claiborne
suited her outfit: opal pearl or gum-
ball red or that gaudy sulfuric yellow.
The purses had a braille-like texture
somewhere between rubber
and Tupperware. For thirty years
I saved them until—recently—I sold
them on Etsy. It was easy—
wrapping their gummy bodies
between layers of soft tissue,
tucking the straps inside like neat wombs,
no one would know the cancer
that they shouldered, when she was
too weak to zip and unzip them,
when it was too late anyway for us
to get to know each other. So it makes
sense that it is my father’s shoulder
I cry on after a student asks me
how far along I am. I shrug and say,
Things aren’t always what they seem.
2 replies on “Fibroids”
Gorgeous, brilliant and heart-breaking poem, Ellen! Love, LaWanda
Very poignant poem. Love the descriptive details, which carry the subtext beautifully. The last line rocks!