from Liza's Monday and Other Poems (1986)
Her mama called her “Pink” when she was born,
to match a tiny flower pressed in Exodus—
from Charlestown gardens, its like not found
among the blossoms wild in Brasstown soil.
She called the two boys “Flotsam” and “Jetsam,”
having heard such words ring somewhere
with all the strength of heroes: Samson, Saul—
though never could she find them in The Book
no matter if she searched to Revelation's end.
The last child Mama named “Rebecca” to be sure,
make up for giving wrong names to the boys—
and those now stuck too tight to budge.
Then Mama died, not knowing just how right
she'd called her boys, hell-bent to leave the plow
and hoe for parts out West where gold grew common
as the stones they cursed in winding valley rows.
In time, their faces faded as Pink brushed
Rebecca's long red hair, the color of her own.
She washed and cooked, up on a wooden stool
that Papa made so she could reach the tubs and stove.
She stitched the gown for Rebecca's wedding day,
embroidered it with pinks and ragged robins
around the neck and sleeves. In other springs,
she knitted caps for babies never hers.
She did for Papa till his days were through
and kept the cabin neat as Mama ever could.
Alone, she withered slowly, frail and dry
as petals caught and pressed by Exodus.