Rebe Huntman
Zinnias In My Mother's Vase
I.
This poem begins with half-truths. The vase is not
my mother’s but a gift from a neighbor
who, like me—though it feels impossible
to say out loud—might be the age my mother reached
before she died (which is to say just young enough
to be startled by the briefness of this visit.)
Still aglow with life, & with all the neighborhood lifting
wine & finger sandwiches to welcome my husband & me
to our new home, she slipped among us without fanfare,
cradling her offerings at her breast: a clutch of Zinnias
ablaze in orange & pinks. The vase, knobbed & white–a mother’s hands.
I caught her out of the corner of one eye: How she tucked
the leaves of a hostas around the edges to make way
for the burst of color at their center, smoothing
those broad leaves like bed covers at a sleeping child’s throat.
II.
The way this vase could be any one of those bright vessels
my mother lined along her pantry shelf: fluted stems, forged
by honest to God human hands, flaring to scalloped, beaded lips.
The exquisite vintage of their palette: amber, cobalt, canary,
rose. The miracle of sand & air turned to glass,
each color dancing in the fire of its own becoming.
And I, too modern for such things, watched the auctioneer
cart them off soon after my mother died.
III.
My sister tells me in those final weeks my mother’s breath
came ragged & raw, & how the sound of it—the way each rasp
& whistle grasped the edge of its own punctuation—irritated her.
Friends, can you tell me you have never turned from the great
animal depths of the beloved—that wondrous engine of heart
& lung wheezing, spitting, roaring for one more breath?
How else to explain my bewilderment each time I glimpse
the neighbor’s offering on my kitchen counter, both vase & flower
an astonishment against that clean expanse of quartz & light.
The audacity of the Zinnia to belie its own mortality.
The brash uprightness of its stem. The unapologetic gush
of color baring itself petal after petal: Magenta. Ruby.
Bubble gum. Firebird. The exposed bud, bursting.
This poem begins with half-truths. The vase is not
my mother’s but a gift from a neighbor
who, like me—though it feels impossible
to say out loud—might be the age my mother reached
before she died (which is to say just young enough
to be startled by the briefness of this visit.)
Still aglow with life, & with all the neighborhood lifting
wine & finger sandwiches to welcome my husband & me
to our new home, she slipped among us without fanfare,
cradling her offerings at her breast: a clutch of Zinnias
ablaze in orange & pinks. The vase, knobbed & white–a mother’s hands.
I caught her out of the corner of one eye: How she tucked
the leaves of a hostas around the edges to make way
for the burst of color at their center, smoothing
those broad leaves like bed covers at a sleeping child’s throat.
II.
The way this vase could be any one of those bright vessels
my mother lined along her pantry shelf: fluted stems, forged
by honest to God human hands, flaring to scalloped, beaded lips.
The exquisite vintage of their palette: amber, cobalt, canary,
rose. The miracle of sand & air turned to glass,
each color dancing in the fire of its own becoming.
And I, too modern for such things, watched the auctioneer
cart them off soon after my mother died.
III.
My sister tells me in those final weeks my mother’s breath
came ragged & raw, & how the sound of it—the way each rasp
& whistle grasped the edge of its own punctuation—irritated her.
Friends, can you tell me you have never turned from the great
animal depths of the beloved—that wondrous engine of heart
& lung wheezing, spitting, roaring for one more breath?
How else to explain my bewilderment each time I glimpse
the neighbor’s offering on my kitchen counter, both vase & flower
an astonishment against that clean expanse of quartz & light.
The audacity of the Zinnia to belie its own mortality.
The brash uprightness of its stem. The unapologetic gush
of color baring itself petal after petal: Magenta. Ruby.
Bubble gum. Firebird. The exposed bud, bursting.
Self-Portrait with Cindy Sherman: Untitled Still
How reassuring to be the woman in the mask.
To know that you are everyone
& no one: Centerfold, Disaster Tale Heroine, Clown in Tears–
Such a life! A thousand skins unspooling in matte
& gloss, your untitled mouth full of props.
But Menopausal Madonna, Sex Doll, Girl Next Door–let me ask you:
How does it feel to vanish in a room made of light? Do you ever
wonder what happens when the last shutter
clicks? Do you finally show yourself? Not a puzzle to solve
but a body? Maybe you try yourself one more time but the new version
doesn’t come. She stands in the doorway—neither monster
nor heroine: Barefoot. Familiar. Simple in silhouette.
To know that you are everyone
& no one: Centerfold, Disaster Tale Heroine, Clown in Tears–
Such a life! A thousand skins unspooling in matte
& gloss, your untitled mouth full of props.
But Menopausal Madonna, Sex Doll, Girl Next Door–let me ask you:
How does it feel to vanish in a room made of light? Do you ever
wonder what happens when the last shutter
clicks? Do you finally show yourself? Not a puzzle to solve
but a body? Maybe you try yourself one more time but the new version
doesn’t come. She stands in the doorway—neither monster
nor heroine: Barefoot. Familiar. Simple in silhouette.
My Dead Mother Keeps Her Dying Sister Up All Night
The cause of fluid in Shirley’s brain is uncertain.
What she knows is that my mother is keeping her
up all night. Not my mother’s ghost, though she’s
been gone 30 years—this visitor is all flesh & throat!
My mother sings O Holy Redeemer, her operatic voice
booming while Shirley accompanies on a piano that still
plays in her ever-leaky mind. On breaks they sip Folgers
from China cups, lips staining bone-white rims.
The more the dying sister disappears, the more solid
the dead one appears. Hear the weight
of invisible footsteps in the hallway, the rasp
of drawers & cabinets as they open & close.
Follow trails of cake & lettuce strewn by unseen hands
across Shirley’s wax-polished floors.
Perhaps you wonder why it is the sister’s ghost,
& not Shirley’s husband’s, who materializes each night
by Shirley’s bed. Why it is my mother’s hand, & not his,
that reaches through the veil to comfort a woman dying.
Perhaps the word sister is the only answer needed–
a communion that requires no polite whispers
so customary in the presence of the dying.
No sober discussion of what’s to come.
Only the most raucous laughter as two women
fill the night with the sound of their selves.
What she knows is that my mother is keeping her
up all night. Not my mother’s ghost, though she’s
been gone 30 years—this visitor is all flesh & throat!
My mother sings O Holy Redeemer, her operatic voice
booming while Shirley accompanies on a piano that still
plays in her ever-leaky mind. On breaks they sip Folgers
from China cups, lips staining bone-white rims.
The more the dying sister disappears, the more solid
the dead one appears. Hear the weight
of invisible footsteps in the hallway, the rasp
of drawers & cabinets as they open & close.
Follow trails of cake & lettuce strewn by unseen hands
across Shirley’s wax-polished floors.
Perhaps you wonder why it is the sister’s ghost,
& not Shirley’s husband’s, who materializes each night
by Shirley’s bed. Why it is my mother’s hand, & not his,
that reaches through the veil to comfort a woman dying.
Perhaps the word sister is the only answer needed–
a communion that requires no polite whispers
so customary in the presence of the dying.
No sober discussion of what’s to come.
Only the most raucous laughter as two women
fill the night with the sound of their selves.
--
Rebe Huntman is the author of My Mother in Havana: A Memoir of Magic & Miracle, which tells the story of her search to connect with her mother among the gods and ghosts and saints of Cuba. A former professional Latin dancer and choreographer, for over a decade Rebe directed Chicago’s award-winning Danza Viva Center for World Dance, Art & Music and its resident dance company, One World Dance Theater. Rebe’s essays, stories, and poems appear in such places as The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, Parabola, Lit Hub, and The Cincinnati Review. A Macondo fellow and recipient of an Ohio Individual Excellence Award, she holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from The Ohio State University and lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and Delaware, Ohio. Both e’s in her name are long. Find her on Instagram @rebehuntman.
Rebe Huntman is the author of My Mother in Havana: A Memoir of Magic & Miracle, which tells the story of her search to connect with her mother among the gods and ghosts and saints of Cuba. A former professional Latin dancer and choreographer, for over a decade Rebe directed Chicago’s award-winning Danza Viva Center for World Dance, Art & Music and its resident dance company, One World Dance Theater. Rebe’s essays, stories, and poems appear in such places as The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, Parabola, Lit Hub, and The Cincinnati Review. A Macondo fellow and recipient of an Ohio Individual Excellence Award, she holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from The Ohio State University and lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and Delaware, Ohio. Both e’s in her name are long. Find her on Instagram @rebehuntman.