My Mother’s Hand
My family hides things
neatly wrapped in crinkled glittered tissue paper
layers upon layers of thin crepe and air
there in a box under a bed
a plain white lightweight cardboard box
that no one dare wrap with a bow
nor stuff into the trash compactor
there lye the secrets of my family
My Grandmother’s removed mole
her mother’s bitter tongue
my sister’s unmarried swollen womb
mine turned inside out
my grandfather’s young drowning liver and his many infidelities
my mother’s uncontrollable rage and the brain cells it affected
generations of black eyes and swollen lips and horrible words
the bits of skin left on the palm after a direct hit
the hatred left on the knuckles
the spite imbedded into the soft cheek
the blood that pools and sometimes spilt out
angry reaching fingers
and handfuls of hair
long thick wavy dark Italian strands of vanity
ripped from the scalps of little girls
with mothers too young and too passionate to care for them
sometimes it was pulled from the heads of lovers
sometimes it was found in the wrong color
woven into the fabric of their uncareful men
so sometimes the hair was from there own scalps
regardless the women of my family always held hair
Then there was the food uneaten
an empty chair at dinner
meals left in a tantrum
food on floors and walls
artillery that missed their mark
a dish spit upon
an insult
a refusal to partake
a withholding of love
I am Italian and in my family
food uneaten was tantamount to shame
a symbol of something wrong
and there in the box was every morsel
wrapped in paper
hidden
Sometimes when alone
I would open the box
unwrap things
touch them taste them listen to them
I did not understand the hiding
I wanted the family to gather around
listen to carols and drink cider
while we unwrapped each piece and hung them on the tree
I wanted to offer the box to friends
pretty packaged pastries
I wanted to throw the contents on the front lawn
give them prices
and have a yard sale
I knew the box like special chocolates
too sacred to eat
I knew what rested inside each piece
without the aid of the coded box top
I knew that box I still do
I use to wonder if the others ever took out the box in secret
fondled the contents
rubbed their hands in the dirt
loving the texture
I use to try and smell their hands
but they always smell just washed
They saw my hands they knew about me
but somehow I was tolerated
I was never certain weather it was youth or pity that allowed me this privilege
after all the mystery of my father was there
with other scarlet letters
resting between bits of paper
this was their purgatory
and the predecessor to my families selective memory
parts of the past in the witness protection program
amnesia over disapproval
this was the cruel beauty of the box
The earthquake of 1974 shook only my house
Titanic plates shifted
and in an instant my childhood was over
My mother was beautiful brilliant Italian and angry
a lethal combination concerning any peace process
but my mother didn’t want peace
she wanted passion
she wanted power
she wanted control
the madness that gripped her was without definition and beyond explanation
with the gifts given her
beauty charm wit intelligence
life should have been her adoring prince
but she sharpened all bright and shiny things to a biting blade
ground them down to a dangerous point
things that were solid she carved out to make cannons or gun barrels
things that were personal and precious became bullets and other form of effective ammunition
things that were beautiful and bonding were pounded down to a fine powder combined with her spit and applied to a flame
there did not exist a more powerful explosive
My mother created a desperate arsenal and declared war
on the world
sometimes we got in her way
What exactly my mother was fighting
we were never quite certain
she was an angle without alliance
switching sides for effect
changing colors for convenience
minions or saints
power was power
In my mother’s world there was no difference between
good and bad
right and wrong
better or worse
she was as glorious as she was wrathful
as charming as she was deceptive
as fun as she was frightening
as much the beauty as the beast
the second most difficult thing about growing up in my mothers house
was never knowing when the transformation was going to occur
when the world was going to turn
from sweet to sour
from gentile to harsh
from playful to defending ones very life
The first most difficult thing
was growing up with no distance
between loving and punishment
My mother’s hand is in the box
the hand that slapped us
the hand that slammed the door and turned off the stereo permanently
the hand that wrapped itself around our necks
the hand that held knifes to them as well
the hand that was over our mouths when she woke us in the night
the hand that locked the door
the hand that moved the furniture when we tried to get away
the hand that hung up the phone
the hand that threw the dishes
the hand that held our hair
the hand that held the things that left the dents in the walls
the hand with the sprained thumb
that she calmly explain to the doctor “I was just hitting my kid”
She developed a strange lump on that hand once
no one knew what it was
but it hurt her and she could not use the hand
It was helpless useless dormant resting
I decided that the hand had developed a consciousness
it spontaneously grew one independent of the rest of the body
It was to become its own entity
and take some control over its actions
the hand had had enough
it would no longer allow her unconditional control
she would have to find another body part to do her dirty work
the hand was rebelling
the consciousness was big and swollen and full of puss
they would drain it but there was always more
the bile of its actions years of misuse
the hand was fighting back
Then the doctor tricked us
in an instant the revolution was over
I watched the hand stab a man once
I watched it slash his tires and clutch his legs
as he tried to walk away
it steered the car as she drove after him
and held the gun in pursuit of her revenge
but she never found him
so later it held pills
that never made it to her mouth
my hands intervened despite themselves
later my mother’s hand reached out to me
and I walked away
When I first touched my lover’s child
I wanted to cut off my hand
he was the slender silk of a dream
a dream I thought I killed
I thought dead and buried
with the flesh and blood scraped from my womb years ago
yet here before me was the tender resurrection of every star
I had ever wished upon
in this child’s eyes was the possibility of my own goodness
but the hand my hand it was not to be trusted
after all I am my mother’s daughter
so I hid myself and prepared for the leaving
but before I could
my lover found me
she took my hand into her mouth
she slid it down her side
she placed it on the soft bread of her belly
she helped my hand find its way into her
she showed me what my hand could do
in the catacombs of love
my hand was a lone songbird
it made music blossom within my lover
she showed me
I am my mother’s daughter
but I did not inherit her hand
I have dreamt of my mother’s death
often
not a dream like you have in the dark but sweet
sorrow of sleep
but one during the everyday rage of consciousness
a dream that is almost a wish
almost a prayer
it could be just a thought
if you didn’t have to hate yourself for thinking it
but you would
so you call it a dream
and I have dreamt of my mothers death
often
accidental overdoses
some unexplained disease
victim of circumstance
or some hideous crime
these have all befallen my mother in my mind
but most often she has met her demise
through her own hand
delivering the suicide she had always promised
no scrawled note of anger or explanation
just her corpse
and its obvious undoing
so we would each wonder
and feel our own blame
But my mother never made promises she could keep
My dreams were never what I wanted them to be
I could control the details
how high the flame
how deep the groves
how long the duration
but my own emotions tricked me
unexpectedly
regardless of my disdain
the sadness pours out
a violence of love
a violation of my right to contempt
I cry at my mothers death
every time
the truth be told
I do not know what is the greater secret
that I despise my mothers legacy
or that I truly love her
with an intensity brilliant and burning
like the sun
I know that someday
I will cry upon my mother’s grave
I will claw away at the earth between us
attempt to resurrect her stone body
and tell it through tears all the things I have wished
I will give to her all the first stars that have failed us
When my mother is dead I will no longer tolerate the box
Its vigil will be over
I will rip it open
spilling its treasure
violently trembling
I will distribute them to her grand children
my children
as validation
to the stories they have heard
to press into scrapbook
and paste to pages
as evidence of things said
and unsaid
And the box
that box
my treasure and my terror
the space I feared would swallow me whole
the threat of my family for those of us who dared to be different
I will burn the box upon her final resting place
I defied the box and stand proud to tell of it
others before me were not so fortunate
my mother fought her way out
with the viciousness of a hand against the inside of a coffin
my mother fought her way out of the box
and once free
she could not stop fighting
My mother declared war on the world
her world
and sometimes
just sometimes
we got in the way
I dreamt of my mother’s hand
not the sort of dream when you are wide eyed and determined
but rather when you are lost in the depth of night
fallen into the hollow of sleep
so close to the texture of death
that you grasp the edge of a universe
that speaks to you
here
I dreamt of my mother’s hand
it came to me
the fallen wing of a fetus
a dove searching for a branch
a butterfly only half freed from its cocoon
a song bird with no voice
Its beauty and desperation were one
I reached out
my mothers hand clung to mine
we fell to our knees in prayer
our hands united
in grace
in honor
in a peaceful waiting comfort
then my mothers hand flew away
unhindered and singing
I awoke
found my lover’s body
placed my hand in her mouth
and cried
