The Batmom

Come nighttime, my cat dons a superhero cape

When not chasing plund'rous beasties, my cat enjoys Batgirl.

 

A villanelle is a highly structured poem with a complex rhyme scheme. Details here. Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night” is perhaps the most famous villanelle in the English language. I prefer Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.”

A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. I also remember a poet friend of mine declaring he was going to write a villanelle. I thought, what a noble pursuit!

Now I found myself with writing sprints to sprint, and no comic books in hand, and so I pursue, too (adhering to the rhyme scheme but relieving myself of any syllabic constraints). Having nothing noble with which to occupy my pen, I turn to my cat and his cape. 

 

Come nighttime, my cat dons a superhero cape

Come nighttime, my cat dons a superhero cape.
He prowls for rodents that sleep through the day.
Hark, plund’rous mouse! You shall never escape.

During daylight he’s sly, ne’er a peep, ne’er a gape
At the tuppence-sized holes that provide you entrée.
Come nighttime, my cat dons a superhero cape.

Sir Beastie, though small, you’ve the courage of an ape;
To crumb-grab and drawer-shite and shelf-thieve’s your way.
Hark, plund’rous mouse! You shall never escape.

You’re fooled by his lounging, the laze in the drape
Of his strip-ed brown body across the duvet.
Come nighttime, my cat dons a superhero cape.

Thumb your nose and your whiskers, make your miniscule jape
See who laughs last tonight, you small, brazen gray.
Hark, plund’rous mouse! You shall never escape.

With a sssswipe of his claw to the fur of your nape
You’ll find the sun set; far too late to make hay.
Come nighttime, my cat dons a superhero cape.
Hark, plund’rous mouse! You shall never escape.

 

Housecleaning

Today I am cleaning
The smears off the wall
And the specks off the floor
And the words off the page.

When the smears on the wall
Come away on my sponge,
When the specks on the floor
Come away on my mop,
Calm settles down on my shoulders.

I find a moment to breathe in
Once and once and once again
Before
The cats and the kids
The chaos and static
Return.

When the words from the page
Come away
I don’t know where they go.

I don’t care where they go.

They sound wrong and look wrong and read wrong
And are

As offensive as the royal blue oil crayon
Smeared from just past the doorway
To the television stand.

As infuriating as the god-damned mother-fucking cheerios
I skitter across on the way to my coffee;
low-sugar whole-grain nutrition-filled specks.

I hit delete with my angry finger
And blast the letters one at a time.
Kapow! Kapow! Kapow! Kapow!

It’s slower than scrubbing
It’s more fun than mopping
And when I have finished
A space in my brain opens up.

The page
is clean.

The house
is clean.

And now I will sit
And stare
At the wall
And the floor
And the page
And wait
For something
To happen.

Tillie in Watermelon

In the nursing home
Tillie wore watermelon sweatsuits.

She was so happy to see me
she tackled me with more strength
than a nursing-homed nonagenarian
is expected to possess.

She had never hugged me before
and I wanted to cry
but I didn’t
because she was so happy to see me
and she loved me so much. 

Before the nursing home
Tillie wore soft housedresses with ironed collars
and thick Suntan pantyhose
and for dressy low heels always polished.

My grandfather called her Tilliekins
and I helped her iron his handkerchiefs.

She sprayed them with water
and maybe a little starch
and when the hot iron
met the damp, thin, white cotton
the handkerchiefs sizzled
and I loved the sound
and I loved the steam that rose up from the iron
an evanescent fog.

Before the nursing home
before she tackled me because she loved me so much
(and until my children 10 years later
no one tackled me because they loved me so much
and it was a long decade)
Tillie scrubbed my hair in my grandmother’s pantry sink
scrubbed it so hard I nearly cried
and she scrubbed it so hard
because she loved me so much.

She walked me downtown
and she told everyone I was Mrs. Wexler’s granddaughter
and she was proud of me though I hadn’t done a thing
and I knew that I was Mrs. Wexler’s granddaughter
but I didn’t know what that meant
and I knew that I was Tillie’s girl
one of Tillie’s girls
and I knew what that meant,
that she loved me so much.

In the nursing home,
the second and third and fourth times I visited
I allowed myself liberties I hadn’t taken
before the nursing home.

I touched her fine hair
far more gently than she had scrubbed mine
and I kissed her cheeks
as soft as her old housedresses
and as wrinkled as my grandfather’s handkerchiefs
awaiting their turn at the iron.

I hugged Tillie in watermelon
and I don’t remember what I said
but I hope it was
I love you so much
and I know it was
good-bye.