Poems from Random Thoughts¹

Marisa De Franceschi

Grandfathers

Mine had one leg missing.

Amputated well above the knee.

Gangrene.

That missing limb coaxed me across the ocean.

“I lost my limb, but got you back instead,” he said.

I replaced the missing limb.

He tells me his missing limb hurts.

He can feel it, even though he sees it is not there.

“Just like you,” he says.

“An ocean apart, but always in my heart.”

“I’ll miss you,” he says,

“when you leave again.

The way I miss my missing limb.”

“Your absence hurts.”

The Corkscrew Hazel Died This Year

The Corkscrew Hazel died this year.

For over thirty years its gnarled and twisted branches did their best,

Strained their necks to reach slivers of sun.

But you planted it too close to the house.

It bent over backwards to get out of its shade.

Alas, it has finally given up the battle and conceded defeat.

It dropped its leaves in Spring and no amount of coaxing could

Bring it back.

It was too late.

I look at my hands, my face, my back.

They too are gnarled and twisted. They too in pain from all the

Effort of trying to lean into you.

I bent myself to you, my sun God, but I too have reached too far

And feel ready to crack and give up the fight.

The Threads that Bind

I sit outside in the morning sun

With a needle and thread and a pair of scissors.

I am snipping the stitching holding together the ticking

On my mother’s pillows.

I need to bleach and wash the fabric.

She’s been gone past a year now

And it’s time I come to grips with some of her possessions.

Beneath the heavy cotton,

There is another, thinner lining encasing the feathers.

I’ll leave that intact and wash it and the feathers together.

The plumes prick my fingers

And I am reminded of my grandmother.

It was her birds that contributed to these headrests.

I remember my mother performing this same ritual.

Snipping her mother’s threads,

Then sewing everything up again.

I marvel at the neat and tidy stitches I am enravelling.

I will never be able to duplicate them.

I am not an agile seamstress.

Not good with a needle.

But I will do my best to put things back in order

And save the pillows for another night.

I lay the heavy cotton in the sun after I wash it.

When dry, I stitch it all back.

And when I do this, I realize

These are the threads that bind.

Ironing Things Out

For me, it is satisfying to press clothes with a red, hot iron.

I smooth out folds and creases and feel in control.

I know I can scorch this fabric if I chose to

Or iron in new creases to annoy you.

Oh, yes, ironing can be a dangerous activity.

Left over anger can make my hand heavy

And I can pound the fabric and threaten its life.

But you are a clever lover.

You never fail to spritz yourself with scent,

Knowing it will escape from a shirt, or some other garment

To tantalize me.

My iron grip loosens,

The anger dissipates

As I iron things out.

Svaporando stirando

Translated by Maria Cristina Seccia

A me dà soddisfazione premere sui vestiti con un ferro rosso, rovente.

Distendo le pieghe e le grinze e sento di avere controllo.

So che posso bruciare questo pezzo di stoffa se decido di farlo

O creare delle nuove grinze per infastidirti.

Ebbene sì, stirare può essere un’attività pericolosa.

La rabbia repressa può rendermi la mano pesante

E posso battere forte sul pezzo di stoffa e mettere in pericolo la sua vita.

Ma tu sei un amante furbo.

Non dimentichi mai di spruzzarti il profumo,

Sapendo che fuoriuscirà dalla maglietta, o da qualsiasi indumento

Per stuzzicarmi.

La presa del ferro si allenta.

La rabbia si dissipa

E svapora stirando.