THE CHANGE INTERVIEWS
Poetry > Plays > Projects
Alice Shapiro
Alice Shapiro
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6:05 m
The Poemgranate
By Cassie Premo Steele
It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.
I am in a hotel room, far from home.
Next door a baby cries. The mama
Coos her sweet southern comfort.
I did this with you, when you were young.
I ran like Persephone, but with a baby,
Smoky Mountains, New Mexico plains,
Boston, and beaches—we've seen the insides
Of hotel rooms turned tombs as I tried
To get what all mothers want, peace
And quiet. I would put you on the floor,
My lily, my orchid, my crocus, let you
Play with plastic cups, suck from multiple
Bottles, anything for one moment
When I could look away without fear
Of falling or choking or hurt.
It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.
You are no baby anymore, at eight
You have fallen from grace
Many times—not from your mother
But from yourself, which is worse.
I mourn like Demeter, even though
You are still here. You inherited
More than my eyes: my vision,
My moods, my hungers, my cycles
And sins. They live in your skin.
By Cassie Premo Steele
It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.
I am in a hotel room, far from home.
Next door a baby cries. The mama
Coos her sweet southern comfort.
I did this with you, when you were young.
I ran like Persephone, but with a baby,
Smoky Mountains, New Mexico plains,
Boston, and beaches—we've seen the insides
Of hotel rooms turned tombs as I tried
To get what all mothers want, peace
And quiet. I would put you on the floor,
My lily, my orchid, my crocus, let you
Play with plastic cups, suck from multiple
Bottles, anything for one moment
When I could look away without fear
Of falling or choking or hurt.
It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.
You are no baby anymore, at eight
You have fallen from grace
Many times—not from your mother
But from yourself, which is worse.
I mourn like Demeter, even though
You are still here. You inherited
More than my eyes: my vision,
My moods, my hungers, my cycles
And sins. They live in your skin.
You told me last week you had waited
For thousands of years in the sky
For a mother who would take you in.
Me, I said, smiling, I was the best one.
And then you stuck in the pin: No,
You were the only one to be so dumb.
It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.
I have no flowers to welcome you back,
No seeds to plant, no chants to make
You whole again. I am human.
Not a goddess with magic or power
To create seasons that mirror
My immense sorrow, your great need.
All I can do is to feed my desire
For solitude, find a way back
To myself through these words
That I harvest like fruits, plucked
From my head, cut open in bed,
And eaten, forbidden or not.
Seeds and core, peel and stem, entire.
It is with this poemgranate that I might
Make myself, mother, whole again.
Copyright © 2009 by Cassie Premo Steele
Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2009 by voxpoetica.com
http://www.cassiepremosteele.com
For thousands of years in the sky
For a mother who would take you in.
Me, I said, smiling, I was the best one.
And then you stuck in the pin: No,
You were the only one to be so dumb.
It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.
I have no flowers to welcome you back,
No seeds to plant, no chants to make
You whole again. I am human.
Not a goddess with magic or power
To create seasons that mirror
My immense sorrow, your great need.
All I can do is to feed my desire
For solitude, find a way back
To myself through these words
That I harvest like fruits, plucked
From my head, cut open in bed,
And eaten, forbidden or not.
Seeds and core, peel and stem, entire.
It is with this poemgranate that I might
Make myself, mother, whole again.
Copyright © 2009 by Cassie Premo Steele
Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2009 by voxpoetica.com
http://www.cassiepremosteele.com
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2:55 m
Cassie Premo Steele, Ph.D. is an award-winning poet & writer living in Columbia, South Carolina. She is the author of five books and hundreds of poems, essays and stories on the themes of mothering, spirituality, healing and the natural world. She also has a creativity consulting business called Co-Creating, which teaches people, both in person and long distance, to use writing as a way of healing and empowerment. Her website is www.cassiepremosteele.com