Littsburgh is thrilled to be able to share with you four poems from Kelly Scarff‘s latest collection, Mother Russia (now available from Kattywompus Press).
“I am anticipating Kelly Scarff’s first full-length book of poetry, because the lyrical energies in this limited edition volume, Mother Russia, make me want more poems of hers to hold, read and re-read. Blood connections, place-kinships, and fleeting intimacies make war with each other in these poems of abandonment, reunion, and allegiance. The allegiance part contains something beautiful: call it plain as a cup of tea in a juice jar, plain as a pair of adored castoff shoes. Best, call it desire, giving story and song within the bold voices inside these poems.”—Judith Vollmer, author of The Water Books
A Cinquain: A mother
She will,
on her best days,
give you her last morsel;
on her worst, she’ll give you her last
morsel.
There are seven of us,
like the days of the week. And we all hate
certain parts of one another.
My mother lingers far from the group
as we approach Koiden,
the village of no water,
unmanicured lawns.
The agenda of religion:
God loves you, God loves us all.
Our mouths inflate with words
these children cannot translate.
Let us say love as it should be:
a child in the banya who stands
straight under the stunted roof,
the moon of the village
orange and low against the hatches,
a young girl who dances
along porch slats, the heels
of her shoes wedged into the gaps.
Fourteen days in Russia,
eight at the orphanage,
and my mother pours thank-yous
into stretched palms:
Spa-see-ba, spa-see-ba!
Watching Yulia Dance
Your mother keeps your sisters
but not you.
And this orphan summer,
the donated black pumps
never leave your small feet.
Their gaps – large enough
to fit the childhood
you left behind.
They slap against the concrete
of the vacant churches we visit
as God watches.
I am here to give you religion.
And you, Yulia,
are here as relief,
one less mouth
to feed at family dinners.
You dance along these wooden slats,
crinkle air with your white skirt,
spin your heels into an easy life,
and keep dancing, even after you see me
see you.
If I could reach you,
I’d give you a home,
your own bedroom, a bus stop.
But we both know it’d be easier
to give you the moon.
Amen
was our anthem. Amen upon waking,
Amen at the bus stop. Amen for the bullies who made
our cheeks ruddy and stained. Amen to my father’s
filthy nails, my mother’s worn feet. Amen
for the dead cats under our tires, the patched shirts
in our closets, our failed tests,
the homework we never finished. Amen to the waving
hand that brushed away our questions.
My mother tapped her leather-bound Bible,
said we had all the answers we needed.
Kelly Scarff is the author of two poetry chapbooks, I Fall in Love with Strangers (Liquid Paper Press) and Mother Russia (Kattywompus Press). Her writings have appeared in Apple Valley Review, Nerve Cowboy, 5 AM, and Shot Glass Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Greensburg, Pennsylvania.
These poems published here courtesy of the author and Autumn House Press.
For more information, visit www.kattywompuspress.com.