Three Poems from Autobiography of My Grandmothers
By Lake Angela
Portrait of Boys in Green | The Taste of Burgundy | Early Education in Cherry
I was a boy. My brother Teodoro and I played
ball, wrestled, trampled through the cornfields
with the other boys, collapsed in a heap and sighed:
husks stuck in hair, mud caked up to our thighs. The grass
grew strong in the breeze. I loved being free in the green
world. Then in school my skirt leaked red. Sister Severine
burned me with her gaze, sent me away. I bolted home,
scuffing my white school shoes on asphalt, but Mama was busy
in the kitchen, sweating puddles of crushed tomato with red
pepper to pour over slippery noodles. Papa blocked my path
when I tried to retreat out the back door: You no go outside
and play with the boys no more. You understand-a me?
When I cried to Mama, she agreed. You don’t have any
business with boys any longer. You are a lady now. I didn’t
want to be a lady behind closed doors, scrubbing with red
hands, feet waxy from polishing the floor. I learned
to bake first, starting with the bread—to watch out
the back window for the tips of cornhusks, a leaf laughing
in the wind, the pigeons in the rafter learning to fly,
as the yeast urged the dough to rise.
We had a bathtub in the basement where my Sicilian father made wine.
I was never too young for him to pour me a glass as bitter and deep
as red lead or cochineal from the crushed snail. Later, when I modeled,
I mingled at parties with other gorgeous people, lounged in maroon
and velvet rooms with deep carmine recliners and gleaming woodwork,
no trace of dust or bugs, just me in my polished shell, perfect fuchsia dress.
I never drank with my director or photographers because, between you
and me, I wanted to be in control. Instead, I roamed the rooms in magenta
heels, ginger ale bubbling in a fluted glass because it could have been
champagne or a cocktail. The guys burned me with their eyes as I walked by,
fast, rubbing up against me so I had to protect my drink against my chest.
Didn’t want anyone making a mess.
In my twelve years of Catholic school, sometimes the police appeared
and lined us up in the corridor, each before his locker. Whoever was selling
pot would start to sweat. I’d stretch my legs and hold my head up high
so the uniformed officers would pass right by. I already smoked,
I’d say when clumsy guys tried to throw their damp arms around me, thrusting
a joint in the direction of my mouth. I fooled everyone so no one would
bother me, but I am not a fool.
Now that my hair is white, I stand alone with my reflection shining
from the white kitchen sink, I can see the fields in my mind where I never
got to set foot. Winding grapevines on a dusty hillside—a dust I wouldn’t mind
if I could kick off my heels and just run—I drink wine again. I pour myself
a glass from a cheap jug and refill. It doesn’t matter so long as I drink
the right color: red because I like the way it gleams. Burgundy because
it is deep. The color stains my lips like the ring in the bathtub, all
that’s left of it—like blood, like childhood.
EARLY EDUCATION IN CHERRY
Nonna protected me with her makeup.
In her washroom, I practiced powdering
my face, dusting a layer of Ohio snow
over a complexion made for sun on olive
branches. Scrawled transient love letters
to my descendants from their ancestors
in black mascara along curled lashes.
Glossed oily lipstick into a crimson smile;
the boys couldn’t see my real face when
I played outside. I always looked gorgeous.
One day Papa stopped by and saw me
transformed. His neck burned bright
as my Cherries in the Snow, lightning veins
on his brow inflamed: Grace, you get that mask
off-a your face! Before he could reach me,
fist raised, Nonna whispered in Sicilian,
one word with a fierce guanine luster.
Dad shut up real quick, hid his hands
tinted the shade Stormy Pink in his horse-
hair pockets, softly tipped his fedora
and the door behind him: Yes, Mama.
Lake Angela is a poet, translator, and dancer-choreographer who creates at the confluence of poetry and movement. Her books include Organblooms, Words for the Dead, and Scivias Choreomaniae (forthcoming from Spuyten Duyvil). She is an editor with Punt Volat and Poetry Midwives. As director of the poetry-dance group Companyia Lake Angela, she presents the value of schizophrenia spectrum creativity: www.lakeangeladance.com.
Photo of the author with her grandmother, courtesy of the author