Mary Tisera

MATHEW

conceived in a parking lot
rooms to rent too dear to enter
your father’s Dodge my only shelter
i feel you squishy and wet
warm and sticky
some of you running down my thigh
as he finishes his work

for months you malinger
stealing my womb
ever the little squatter
you turn my life over itself
desperate days
phone in hand
my father’s stunning refusal
“I’m disappointed in you”
burned into my brain

emerging from your cocoon
your grand entrance delayed
again squishy and wet
blue and wide-eyed
full head of hair
long eyelashes
long nails
suckling needily at my tit
til you drain me dry

now you are gone
trapped in the garden state
so far, so far
no longer wanting, no longer needing
i miss you squishy and wet
inside of me and
running down my thigh
as he finishes his work

* * *

PACIFIED

i wake
eyes filled with mixtures of sleepies and tears
it’s uncomfortable but only for a moment
soon the light-duty nurse arrives with breakfast
my usual—grits and coffee
she is pleasant, smells nice
orange blossoms and morning dew

i wait
back pain combines with impatience
i’m annoyed but only for a moment
my regular makes her entrance
gets out my things, begins her routine
she’s in a good mood, talkative
dollar-store hoops sparkle in the sunshine

i lay
my strap lumpy in all the wrong places
it’s unbearable but only for a moment
another nurse comes bringing with her the hoyer
they rope me in, plop me in my chair
she stays to help and gossip with my care-giver
their laughter filling and welcome

i ponder the why of life
the importance of little things like grits and laughter
i’m in awe of the universe
but only for a moment…

* * *

MY MOTHER'S VOICE

vibrates inside my brain
at times loud as thunder
proud, hungry lions that feast on my flesh

my constant moral compass
niggles and nags and harps
no matter what I do to silence it

I pray for the sweet release of the Sandman’s call
Only to dream of my faraway childhood
Where I am surrounded by her gigantic omnipresence

I can even hear the endless piercing whir
when I fly on the Vicodin airways
or swim in the Smirnoff waters

ever-present, it knows
every secret sin before I do
revealing all dirty things meant to stay concealed

mother would laugh about this deification
“You never listened to a damned thing
when I was around. Why start now?”

why, indeed?, I ask myself as I reflect on this poem
where does this perpetual doubt come from
i’ve lost the ability to tell my mother’s voice from my own

Mary Tisera wrote her first story, "Demons," when she was nine, after her father left and grandmother died of cancer in the same year. She served a brief stint in the army before marriage. After two sons, she left his abusive ass and headed back north to get her college degree, but in 1999 suffered a near-fatal stroke. She now resides at Inglis House and takes great pride in her work.