Estranged Villanelle
For forty years, I shared only the good—
my mother and I in a booth every Thursday,
long talks that avoided my childhood
memories. I left out the times she stood,
threatened to walk out, so I’d beg her to stay.
For forty years, I shared only the good—
antiquing in a charming neighborhood,
new bakery, bridal shower, Sunday matinee.
Long talks that pretended my childhood
didn’t color outside the lines of my baby book.
Why did I participate in her little stage play?
For forty years, I shared only the good,
unspoken agreement that some things should
be private. With friends I knew what to say,
long talks that amended my childhood.
Everyone loved my mother. Who would
believe this other side of her, anyway?
So for forty years, I shared only the good,
even with myself. I discounted my childhood.
*
Preexisting Conditions
My brother wouldn’t get the vaccine.
My mother’s partner wouldn’t let her see my brother.
My mother begged my husband and me to fix it.
We tried. Three years of this.
My brother said big pharma.
My mother’s partner uninvited us from his life.
My mother canceled Christmas but still texted
How about a phone call on Christmas to your mother?
I got the text in the car, passenger seat.
I pressed my hand flat against the cold window.
I knew I would never call my mother again.
My husband and I were driving to the zoo,
a pandemic tradition we kept when the world returned.
Every night-disappeared tree now outlined in color,
a reverse silhouette. The familiar made strange.
The sloth’s head on backwards. The owl upside down.
*
Am I the Asshole
I ask my husband, I ask my best friend. They say no.
I say I’m burning it all down. They say I’m cutting the rot.
I say this is a poem and it’s all clichés so far. They say
nothing because now I’m alone, writing this poem.
My mother’s frown. My brother saying I was her little doll.
My classroom ceiling collapsing after reporting a leak for a year.
My mother taught me politeness and quiet. She taught
my brother entitlement and demands. It scares me
how impolite I’m being, not talking to my mother or brother,
quitting my job. Writing this poem. I should smile
and sip tea. I should break cookies into fourths
so it takes half a week to eat one fucking cookie. I should
tell the therapist it’s fine, I don’t remember either.
I should forgive my mother because I should not remember.
*
Melissa Fite Johnson is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Midlife Abecedarian (Riot in Your Throat, 2024). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ploughshares, Pleiades, The Southern Review, and elsewhere, and has received a special mention for the Pushcart Prize. Melissa, a high school English teacher, is a poetry editor for The Weight, a journal for high school students, and Porcupine Lit, a journal by and for teachers. She and her husband live with their dogs in Lawrence, KS.
Powerful poems.