The Poetry of Rebecca Kavaler
Distinguished Entry 2006
What My Mother Told Me
Only money has enduring value, she said,
and removed her dentures.
I stare at the bed with its white chenille spread.
at the effigy
the memento mori
my mother
resting in state on her catafalque.
She is already too thin to make a mound.
You are young, she accused me, you still believe
in the hegemony of the flesh
but I tell you the spirit is stronger
and the spirit is money,
waxing as the body wanes.
I never listen to my mother.
She calls them home truths
but I left home long ago.
Have you noticed, she rambled on,
how weightless money has become
since those early days of Yap stones,
of porcine jawbones?
It took no genius, I agree, to see the need
for something more portable.
Yes, she nodded, coins of shiny metal
engraved with the portrait of rulers,
something to bite down on.
She paused as if waiting for the antistrophe
or was it the rhetorical effect of pain?
Yes, I say, to assure her I am listening,
yes after so many years of no.
Nice jingle in the pocket , her thought
continued to pick its way
through the thicket of painkillers.
But cumbersome
in the carrying.
Paper is lighter, I agree,
though we have to take it on trust,
a hard reach for most of us.
And now, she capped me, we have
the pixelated ether
of the computer screen,
the animus, the breath of wind
that has been called our soul,
the spiritus sancti of our great amen.
I teeter in the doorway, half in half out
as I have always been in this house.
The first time I left I swore I would never come back.
When she leaves, she will be more steadfast
Isn't it odd, she gummed, when money
grows at a compound rate, we call it profit
but when the flesh does the same
we use a nastier name.
I do not answer.
To what she has, the doctors say,
there is no answer.
When your father left me–she glared at me as if I were the cause—
I thought the world had ended. It had just begun.
Why is it that I could pass on to you intact
this accident of a face, length of bone, color of eye
but nothing of the life-wisdom I have acquired? That
would have served you better than your father's good teeth.
I thank my father for the teeth, clamp them shut.
It is not easy,
these constant flights, coast to coast, so close
on the heels of the sun that only two hours
will pass between departure and arrival.
From the moment I lift my baggage from the carousel
I feel the gravity of time standing still
much as I did as a young girl imprisoned here
on the top floor, a Rapunzel awaiting
rescue from a tower. I didn't have the hair
but I had the will.
What will become of you? was her dismissal,
you with your dead-end job and dead-end men.
(This old woman without her teeth still has a bite.)
I've given you good advice, not that you heed it.
You still have your looks but they will soon leave you.
Then you will see –her last words to me
as she turned off the light—
everything leaves you.
It's not that way with money:
it's you who do the leaving.