The Space Between
This poem is a cento hybrid. I love writing centos, gathering favorite lines around a thought or a theme or, in this case, an old photo of my sister and me. Once upon a time I thought that in old age my sister and I, shed of husbands, might live together. Now, as she experiences cognitive impairment (and still has a husband), the idea seems both bittersweet and absurd. Why hybrid? Because I used my own words to stitch it together and to make it mine. The sources for The Space Between are at the end of the poem.
You endured the pincurls, the fuss over ribbons,
and still smiled for the camera. How many shots
before the shadow of me[1] became a sister?
And what was I like on the first day of my life?
Were we two from the start,[2] separate?
My thoughts danced on the tightrope
of your smile,[3] for the camera, for mommy,
her longings twined round our two necks.[4]
My heart was small; it took very little to fill it.[5]
But you did not touch my waving little hand.
It met only air and silence.[6] In that moment
something happened, much did not.[7] I looked
your way, you looked at the world beyond.
Tell me of the future that you had
planned,[8] sister mischief and secrets.
How easily it would go, how the sun[9] would follow
us each day armed with infinite opportunities.[10]
You would be in charge; I would be the sneaky one.
When you could no more hold me by the hand, [11]
there would be rivalry. You did not plan tears
in fitting rooms, sullenness, broken glasses.
The loud voice famous to our silence.[12]
Mommy would become Mother. She needed
us to be good. Everyone was watching.
No one’s life looms larger than one’s own.
No one else’s memories are as precious
as those shared with a sister. We had decades to sit,
We lounged on the dock watching our children.
We mothered with quiet reason, mostly,
in delayed opposition to what we knew.
I’m still not sure I understand[15] how memory
works, except the near slips sooner than the far.
Yesterday disappears like stirred-up honey into tea.[16]
Ideas you carry close to your bosom[17] blossom
into stories tangled into truths you believe
but I do not. Your truths held fast against my facts.
Of course both are true, but never in the same measure.[18]
Something in each of us is waiting,[19] as midnight’s
ticking closer on the clocks[20] and your voice falls
and falls and keeps falling.[21] Whenever I go,
I cling to my hope[22] that you will remember me
when I am gone away.[23] That my reappearance,
my waving hand, will be a surprise but not
a mystery. My God, how lucky I am to have had
this sister, to have lived a life I would die for.[24]
Sources
[1] the shadow of me, “Switch Plate,” Al Ortolani
[2] And what was I like on the first day of my life/Were we two from the start, “The Night Where You no Longer Live,” Meaghan O’Rouke
[3] my thoughts dance/on the tightrope of my smile, “Woman with Eyes Wide Open,” Alejandra Pizarnik
[4] Was twined round our two necks, “Divorce,” Denise Levertov
[5] My heart had become small; it took very little to fill it, “Eros, Louise Gluck
[6] only air or silence, “As a Hammer Speaks to a Nail,” Jane Hirshfield
[7] Something happens, much does not, “How Rarely I Have Stopped to Thank the Steady Effort,” Jane Hirshfield
[8] tell me of our future that you plann’d, “Remember,” Christina Rossetti
[9] how easily it goes, and how the Sun, “Considering Starlink,” Elizabeth Twiddy
[10] Each day armed with infinite opportunities, “Hello, I Am Not a Soldier, Abby E. Murray
[11] When you could no more hold me by the hand, “Remember,” Christina Rossetti
[12] The loud voice is famous to silence, “Famous,” Naomi Shihab Nye
[13] Sit. Feast on your life, “Love After Love,” Derek Walcott
[14] belly laugh, “Notes on Communication,”Michele Herman
[15] I’m still not sure I understand, “Notes on Communication,” Michele Herman
[16] like stirred-up honey into tea, “How Rarely I Have Stopped to Thank the Steady Effort,” Jane Hirshfield
[17] The idea you carry close to your bosom, “ Famous,” Naomi Shihab Nye
[18] Of course there are those for whom both are true, but never in the same measure, “I’ve Been Thinking About Love Again,” Vievee Francis
[19] Something in each of us is waiting, “Divorce,” Denise Levertov
[20] as midnight’s ticking closer on the clocks, “Echo Chambers,” Susan McLean
[21] If your voice falls and falls and keeps falling, “As a Hammer Speaks to a Nail,” Jane Hirshfield
[22] Wherever I go, I cling to my hope, “Hello, I Am Not a Soldier,” Abby E. Murray
[23] Remember me when I am gone away, “Remember,” Christina Rossetti
[24] My God, How lucky to have lived/a life I would die for. “I Went Out to Hear,” Leila Chatti
Thank you, Cass! There is ambivalence, for sure. . .
This is a WOW Susan. What a lot of research to get the emotion in this poem. The right lines to find the competition, the memories, dealing with your Mother’s perfection, and the slow loss of your sister. I pick up an ambivalence about the relationship, I so admire your work as a poet. Thank you for sharing it. And educating me about its form.