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Don't Write a Poem About Me After I'm Dead
by Norma Ketzis Bernstock
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Excerpts
A Figure Like That
When I was ten, right after school
I’d switch on the Philco at 4:00PM
tune into the Mickey Mouse Club.
Doreen was my favorite Mouseketeer.
Not as perfect as the rest,
dark circles under her eyes
a real nose, not a turned-up one.
She wasn’t fat but not skinny either
and I always felt if I lost a few pounds,
I’d have a figure just like hers.
I loved to watch her dance with the gang
and since I studied tap at Miss Lou’s
on Thursdays at 5:00,
I pictured myself next to Doreen
in that lineup of smiling faces.
I loved the episodes of Spin and Marty
that took place at a dude ranch,
envied Annette Funicello
for the way she looked in her jeans.
She had the full bust and small waist
so attractive in form-fitting styles.
One day as I dressed for a family photograph,
my mother reminded me
to tuck my oversized blouse into
the baggy skirt I had chosen for the occasion.
An awkward preteen, hair pulled back
behind a plastic head band,
I smirked at the camera,
wished I could put a halt to all photos
until I lost my baby fat
like my mother promised I would,
until I looked like Doreen or Annette,
shapely but not too thin.
After Sitting Shiva for My Mother
My father asks me to clear
her closets and dresser drawers.
Stuffed under sweaters and slips,
I find dozens of plastic rain bonnets,
the kind that fold into vinyl cases
with advertising on the sides,
key chains attached to tiny 3-D photo viewers
sold at Catskill resorts—
my parents smiling at The Pines,
The Nevele, Homowack Lodge.
My mother collected sewing kits
in cardboard cases
that looked like matchbooks,
assorted buttons but mostly tiny white ones
from my father’s shirts, the thread still secured
and stacks of S & H Green Stamps.
Because I knew that my mother
hid money in pillow cases,
I empty the linen closet as well.
I search for a diamond tennis bracelet
my father is certain he purchased
on their last cruise.
Instead I find a twenty dollar bill
stuffed inside an oven mitt
and one dime store trinket
studded with rhinestones.
My father insists they are diamonds.
Endings
I heard that when a living thing dies
maggots consume the flesh.
My friend Paula told me this
after her rabbit died.
When my kitten died
I couldn’t bear to part with her.
I held her for hours
but worried that I’d see the maggots.
Finally my husband and I
entered the garden well after midnight,
he with flashlight and spade,
me hugging Mitzi tight in my arms.
I remember how we dug the grave,
buried her together
even though he and I were coming apart.
Purchase Don't Write a Poem About Me After I'm Dead here.
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