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The Woman I Wrestle 
for Sharron 1945-1984
by  Nancy Shiffrin



Her hair turns black, yellow, orange,
frizzes, straightens, lengthens, shortens.
She stomps, whirls, howls,
"Button missing, bitten nails, mustard stain, fat slouch!"
A buzzer rings. I look out the window.
You appear carrying sheets and towels
I didn't ask for. You stack linens into neat piles.
I throw my candle. You ignite. 
I hurl myself into the burning center.

My mother loved
    button-eyed sock dolls, Hand-Maid cards. 
    She copied Picasso's Harlequin in chalks,
    hung her masterpiece sideways from
    brass curtain rings against a black wall.
    Now, portraits of marriage adorn her mobile home,
    snaky chartreuse shot with purple.
    She calls me midnights, asks their titles.
Yours I knew by
    papers piled on the kitchen table,
    Father pounding fists, Brother's empty eyes.
    She served roast pork and champagne
    before noon, rushed to paint porcelain plates
    you gave me, so proud of pastel sweetpeas,
    glaze, gilt, tight design.
They wore orange sunbursts,  
    trapped Daddies in gummy minuet,
    us with monstrous partners.
    We wanted arabesque,
    slow twist around the spine, backs arching,
    were paralyzed until we took what gnawed
    to breast, to bite, to feed its greedy heart.

I dye my hair auburn, a shade deeper than yours,
almost bright as Baba's braid.
I set my hair like the lady in the commercial
just before she scrubbed the floor.
How I scrub! Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
Careful not to get my pants dirty.
Scrub 'til I catch myself grinning into the shine.
You are blond in my dreams, Spring Maiden I follow
into the beckoning pale-green sunlight under water.






from THE HOLY LETTERS greatunpublished.com 2000
signed inscribed copies available at nshiffrin@earthlink.net


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