Vessels

By: Abbie Langmead

 

Basket weaving was easy

when the kids were young.

It was a mess, but we were a mess

 

And in those moments,

I imagine you, grandmother

uncomplaining, only going to the doctor

because you’re having a child

or because your child is sick. I think

about you, the woman who wanted

to blur the lines between

your sixteen children's messes

and your own, so you would never be blamed.

 

In those moments,

I see the daughter

you deny yourself being,

and the doll that you accept

that you once were. Sitting

on the edge of a workbench,

watching your father make

a worktop from the scrap

wood and scrap intimacy

your mother provided him.

 

Everything left in your house

holds more meaning then. I know

that your children would sell anything

they think might be valuable, but I’ll take

your father’s desk to write down the histories you never said. I’ll take your baskets.