The Apostrophe Blog
My narrative poem about my great-grandmother, Charity Schaeffer Lamoureaux, was published in print in Passager a long, long time ag0—yikes, a dozen years past, in Spring 2012. Per their website, Passager (passage + passenger) is “a small, independent literary press whose mission is to publish the work of older writers, encourage the imagination in the later stages of life, and create beautiful and welcoming publications. Passager was born in Baltimore in 1990. The idea was to bring attention to writers over 50 by giving them opportunities to publish with a nationally recognized press. At that time, it was unusual to find men and women writing in their 80s and 90s, but now we are happy to report that more and more authors join those ranks every day.”
Tableau Mourant
My great-grandmother died
where she sat, rocker by the window
afternoons captive to Guiding Light,
no need to study skeins or the afghan’s squares
buried in the calico of her lap.
That day, her netted hair—what wisps were left—
held, taut at the nape of her neck
and her stockings—she called them hose—
rolled her ankles like crullers baked tight
until her skin marbled blue.
In the naked-bulb kitchen, her spinster daughter
still unknowing wields tongs,
lifts scald-hot jars from a canner,
the taboo “shit” a hiss from her lips
when one slips back into the pot and breaks.
Against the plastered wall, she scrapes
a match and lights her cigarette.
The air is pickle-sweet;
a percolator burps.
It’s nearly evening in Meander, in autumn,
in a coal town through which the wind
pushes the sun past one final
click and flash of a purple crochet hook
and into the sudden smell of peat.
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