These poems are based on dreams I had about my mother while she was in hospice care and after her death. These particular six dreams each took place in a different room of the house where I grew up. Losing a parent certainly affects the household, and the sense of home, for the family members who remain.
THE DREAM IN WHICH SHE CHEWS ON ME
Half-asleep in the guest room and it’s like when my parents would joke with me as a kid: We’re gonna jump on your wishbone and wake you up! But not funny now because she lies down on the bed with her head at my feet and starts gnawing my ankle.
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THE DREAM IN WHICH SHE CAN'T BE TOUCHED
We’re sitting in my childhood bedroom, having a mother-daughter chat. My hand goes through her body three times. She gives me a look as if to say: Come on now. That’s enough. You know better.
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THE DREAM IN WHICH SHE DISAPPEARS LIKE A GENIE
From upstairs we hear her call Come here! We run down and enter the living room where she’s waiting in front of the fireplace with her arms crossed. She glares at us, imperial and stern. A descending minor-second motif plays over and over. Her body ripples, folds itself, vanishes. My brother grips my arm. Did you see her? Did you? He watches me nod, dumbstruck. Then his face becomes her face.
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THE EXTREME CLOSE-UP DREAM
Changing two double-A batteries, one drops to the floor. Squat to pick it up and--What the hell?—
around the circumference of the kitchen table’s underside
a multitude of batteries hang, suspended like stalactites.
My mother’s in the laundry room folding sheets. She glances at me mischievously.
Enraged, flying over the railing, pointing at her--You!!!— like a camera zooming in.
Her face is magnified and fills the entire screen.
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THE BASEMENT DREAM
My father cajoles me to follow him down those creaky stairs, despite my childhood fear of cobwebs and spiders and possible ghosts in the closet. We search for an electrical outlet, try to plug in an appliance. My mother’s American Girl dolls stare at us. She’s busy at her sewing machine. Nothing about this seems unusual until the usual thought crosses my mind: Wait — what is she doing here again?
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THE SNOW ANGEL DREAM
The family room is as it was before, with the old stereo system (turntable, 8-track, cassette)
and lots of plants (ivy, African violets, ferns) and the piano full of music.
My father’s telling me something about my brother coming for Christmas.
My mind wanders, finds my mother outside. She lies on her back in the snow-covered yard.
Grinning like a child, arms and legs sweeping up and down as if doing jumping jacks,
she makes an angel.
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Header photo by T. Guzzio.
CONNECT WITH LISA:
Lisa DeSiro is an American writer and pianist. Her poems have appeared in various print and online formats, including: Commonthought, Mezzo Cammin, Prodigal’s Chair, Rattle, and Sixfold. She also has a poem included in the anthology Thirty Days: The Best of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project’s First Year. Lisa was a finalist in the 2015 Mass Poetry on the T contest, and won second prize in the 2013 Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition (sonnet category). She frequently collaborates with composers, providing texts to be set for singing; poems of hers can be heard in this format on the albums Currents (2013) and Living in Light (forthcoming). Along with her MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, she has degrees from Binghamton University, Boston Conservatory, and Longy School of Music. Prior to her current employment as Production & Editorial Assistant for C.P.E. Bach: The Complete Works, she earned her living as a freelance musician. Learn more about her at https://thepoetpianist.wordpress.com/.
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