Em Oh Em

Last night at Barnes & Noble we hosted author Alex Kava, whose real name is apparently Sharon, but who initially had problems being taken seriously as a female thriller writer. Understandable, I suppose, as Sharon really seems more PTA president than intrigue inventor. So she began submitting manuscripts under the name Alex ("a name [she] could live with") and had better luck, though her mother apparently has never really gotten used to the idea.

This started a conversation about mothers, specifically our mothers, more specifically how they deal with (or don't deal with) our writing and the things we write about. Alex, for example, was raised in a devoutly Catholic family but recently (or, perhaps, "so recently") has had to murder a couple of priests in one of her books. Awkward. So when I got home last night, I pulled out my old manuscript and re-read some of the poems in which my mom appears. One in particular I remember she had a strong reaction to, "Oh honey," she said, "I like this," and got all misty-eyed. (This rates as a "strong reaction" as her usual response to my writing at the time was, "Oh.") At any rate, I thought I'd throw it up here, so to speak. More on this topic to come.

I Couldn't Want Another Life

Of course this is a lie. Even telling this
I've failed at something.

In the yard, my mother battles the cold--
there are seeds to be planted. She doesn't

ask for much, trowel and water.
All I want is common ground, roads

open in winter, dress across my hips
in summer--nothing more.

It would be difficult without her,
left alone with my grief.

And her face. In the garden she is simple.
Never mind her life--it's laced with sweat.

Truth is like dirt. It is what it is. In the garden,
knuckles bleeding, my mother on her knees.