But even Amazons fear their own mothers

Gabriella Garofalo

 

But even Amazons fear their own mothers –
I’m not saying it happens all the time, mind:
Now and again a mourning woman
Set on building up her grief as a private temple:
The highest gold leaf ceilings,
Blue candles scattered here and there,
The many pics of sweetest memories,
Enormous pillars of rage, tears, salt –
No need for brickies or marble cutters,
She builds it by herself in the white silent chaos
That won’t upset the neighbours –
Once the building’s over many options she’s got,
Prayers, deep thoughts, sobs, to throw a tantrum,
To rest her head on a pew, even to smash it
If she feels to, albeit tactless mirrors,
The dim lights of suburbia
And the neon of big cities give her a healthy blue funk –
Well, just for the record I’m of a different ilk:
Can talk to everything if need be,
Can talk to everyone if a crisis crops up,
To the living and the dead,
To  three-year-old brats, to blue friends,
To candles and needles, to queens and to dreams,
Which is nice but no use, as she’s sitting unfazed,
A sharp ‘no’ to my pleas, she won’t show up
And I’d better desist lest I be banned to exile –
Stop it green wildness,
I’ll grab you by the hair in a dash,
I’ll fling you to the ground, then I’ll meet in the end
All the children romping and frisking on the grass,
I’ll wave hello with a smile, they’re my life,
Yes, I’ll wave hello to my life with a smile
Instead of the usual stern nod, I’ll even say ‘thanks’ –
I know, it’s a gritted-teeth smile, so what?
Children will thank me for getting rid
Of a green witch in disguise.