Red Gown with Lace
As always, I’m drawn to this room, the one with the Chagalls,
but today, I’m not here for them. I came for this hard bench
under these dim lights to write about my mother. When I last
saw her, she listed hard to her left side, toward the port-wine
stain on her cheek, vivid on her pale skin. At my bedtime,
she often recounted the tale of her christening, how, instead
of making the sign of the cross on her forehead with holy water,
someone spilled a bottle of red wine over her white lace dress.
It was a soggy, ruined mess. Chagall’s bride wears a long red gown
with lace edging at the neck and cuffs, covered by a long white veil.
The bride has pale hands.
(One is flesh-toned, one is white.)
A fish leaps up to a red table.
(His left hand holds a yellow-flamed candle.)
The groom holds his bride with yellow hands.
I thought the christening story was true. It puzzles me that my mother
leans to her left side. Her right side has failed her. Her speech is gone.
Expressive aphasia, the doctor said, but she understands everything.
On my mother’s bird’s-eye maple desk, the grain, still visible, is yellow
and dark. As a new wife, she rubbed linseed oil on it every week with
a soft cloth. Now she drags her left hand across an alphabet board.
Everything blurs as I look down at my notebook, up
at the paintings. Cerulean blue ink makes faint rings.
A man with a round blue head plays a recorder.
(It’s hard to see his hands.)
The bride and groom are surrounded by flowers.
(A goat plays a green viola.)
The bride and groom float overhead in the dark blue air.
About This Poem: As I’m assembling all my published poems, and especially as I’m comparing them to the memoir I’m writing, I see a unifying theme of healing. My memoir is about blending my lives as a physician and as a writer. Spiritual growth and healing through creativity are prominent themes. This week, my poem is about healing through an interaction with a painting. It first appeared in the print version of Schuylkill Valley Journal, Spring/Summer 2022. The poem I posted last week, “Organic Chemistry,” also had elements of healing. One of my readers reminded me of this when she described the ginkgo trees as a symbol of persistence and endurance. These are certainly qualities that helped me survive the rigors of medical training.
