Joanne Samraney
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Joanne Samraney. Her poetry manuscript, Believe the Leaves was a finalist for both the Panhandler Poetry Chapbook Competition and the Perivale Poetry Chapbook Award. Her work has been published in Verve, The Loyalhanna Review, and many other journals. Her recent book, Breaking Bread with the Boscos, is a unique collection of family poems, memoirs and recipes.
Moon’s Child
My swollen body floats
in this shallow pond.
Fish with teeth
sharp as my father’s
nibble at my feet.
My feet belong to the fish
living under the moon.
It is the moon who mirrors
the face of my mother.
She sits on a rock. She laments.
“We must be like fish.
We must swim upstream.”
Her tired arm tugs at the black net
twisted between my thighs
until threads break and water
pulls the graceful body
of my daughter away from me.
Upstream she swims,
her young breasts float
like soft white lilies.
Her small pink mouth
opens and closes
like the mouth of a fish.
My swollen body floats
in this shallow pond.
Fish with teeth
sharp as my father’s
nibble at my feet.
My feet belong to the fish
living under the moon.
It is the moon who mirrors
the face of my mother.
She sits on a rock. She laments.
“We must be like fish.
We must swim upstream.”
Her tired arm tugs at the black net
twisted between my thighs
until threads break and water
pulls the graceful body
of my daughter away from me.
Upstream she swims,
her young breasts float
like soft white lilies.
Her small pink mouth
opens and closes
like the mouth of a fish.
appeared in The Pennsylvania Review and also in City Paper.
Grandma, You Have Followed Me
to Cordova, New Mexico
Together we walk the years
down another dirt road in Verona, Pennsylvania
when the blue bandanna
lifts strands of silver from your parched face.
Your callused hands pick raspberries
creeping from wooden fences,
plop them gently into your folded apron.
Cousin Mary skips ahead bouncing pick and shovel.
I lag behind, spilling water from filled buckets.
Life was simple then Grandma
as it is here walking
through these bean fields
brown earth at our feet,
soft sky caressing our heads.
to Cordova, New Mexico
Together we walk the years
down another dirt road in Verona, Pennsylvania
when the blue bandanna
lifts strands of silver from your parched face.
Your callused hands pick raspberries
creeping from wooden fences,
plop them gently into your folded apron.
Cousin Mary skips ahead bouncing pick and shovel.
I lag behind, spilling water from filled buckets.
Life was simple then Grandma
as it is here walking
through these bean fields
brown earth at our feet,
soft sky caressing our heads.
appeared in Loyalhanna Review.
Canning Tomatoes
My husband wants me
to can tomatoes with him
and suddenly I am
in that damp basement on Wayne Street.
Mother wears a stained apron.
My sister and I timidly wait
for our signal to begin,
that first slit of skin,
the exposed pulp.
Acid burns our nostrils.
Bell jars boil on a blackened stove.
Their steady clink
threaten summer’s end
like this shrill of cicadas
through our screen door.
I turn to my husband
and say no.
I am afraid of not sealing
lids tight enough,
boiled water toppling,
jars shattering, smeared hands
sifting through chunks of tomatoes
not able to put the pieces
back together again.
My husband wants me
to can tomatoes with him
and suddenly I am
in that damp basement on Wayne Street.
Mother wears a stained apron.
My sister and I timidly wait
for our signal to begin,
that first slit of skin,
the exposed pulp.
Acid burns our nostrils.
Bell jars boil on a blackened stove.
Their steady clink
threaten summer’s end
like this shrill of cicadas
through our screen door.
I turn to my husband
and say no.
I am afraid of not sealing
lids tight enough,
boiled water toppling,
jars shattering, smeared hands
sifting through chunks of tomatoes
not able to put the pieces
back together again.
appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.