My Mother in Maine

This poem shows how fine is the line between remembering and imagining.


My Mother in Maine
By Nijla Mumin

Every time my mother cooks fish,
she tells stories—
how her mother preferred sole to flounder,
grandma's hands caked with cornmeal
as Mahalia Jackson testified through song.
Catfish was a cardinal sin, too slimy
but snapper found a home in her hot oil.
In a former life,
I imagine my mother in Maine.
A fisherman's wife
Hugging docks
and throwing gillnets into heavy tides,
waiting for lobsters to get lost in them.
Singing a sea chantey
while she guts whiting for dinner.
I imagine her setting sail by herself,
a better fisherman 
than her husband ever was.
My mother, an aquatic being
slumbering atop the deck of a boat,
her face amist with the wet
of a Wednesday morning sail. 

Posted by Annmarie at 1/14/2011 12:35 AM
Categories: today's words
Tags: Nijla Mumin mother fish fisherman memory imagine
 

What did you think of this article?




Trackbacks
Trackback specific URL for this post
  • No trackbacks exist for this post.
Comments
Display comments as (Linear | Threaded)

Leave a comment

Submitted comments are subject to moderation before being displayed.

 Name

 Email (will not be published)

 Website

Your comment is 0 characters limited to 3000 characters.