The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Moira Linehan
Grief’s Library
In a library . . . commitment It all comes down to place, one place and only one place on the shelf. Grief shelved me on the one where my mother’s leaving left me. She, the book that should be next to me. Book I love, I know so many lines by heart. Book, never returned. Next to me, a gap I lean into. Empty frames hang in a museum in my city. Those frames keep the public’s eye on paintings thieves stole decades ago. They’ve never been found. The public still pays to view the missing. One place, only one place my mother could be. And she is not. To Sister Aloysius
I was trying to keep the grammar straight, the gender of vocabulary I’d memorized in your class. Museums in and of themselves exhaust me and having to translate titles and notes on top of jet-lag—well, not much was left in my tank. By the time I reached the last gallery, the needle was on E. That’s how the title, the elementary title, stopped me: Une Mère et Son Enfant. The enfant, a little girl, turquoise blue dress, in a boat with her mother. The note instructed to notice Cassatt’s work, how vaporeux their dresses yet how solid their bodies. What I notice is the masculine son with enfant, so turn to the guard seated nearby to ask why son as I point to the daughter. The guard rises into perfect posture, tilts her head back and says, Madame, en France enfant can be fille ou fils, and since enfant could be un garçon, then en France, Madame, enfant must be male. She nods her head to punctuate her answer, then winks at me and laughs. Sister, trust me, this woman has given this speech before. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |