CATHY McARTHUR

THANKSGIVING

        Mom’s at the table with my eight year old son, telling him about the day the burglar broke into her home in Astoria. She was married to my father, a fireman; she slept alone nights, my brother an infant slept in the next room. A man with a flashlight stood over her bed and she warned him, I’ll give you ten minutes to get out. I scrape plates, put stuffing away. My son Sam sits on her lap, begs, tell me more. She explains: the man wore sneakers and a cap; that’s all she saw. I glance in, Sam looks scared. I put leftover sweet potatoes in a plastic container, say don’t worry, that doesn’t have to happen here. We have an alarm. That was in Astoria, years ago. Mom remembers my father bought a police dog, which ended up killing chickens across the street.

        My husband takes out the garbage, collects bottles, disappears into the basement. My son blows a whistle; Mom tells him her father once took a whistle that she bought for three cents and stepped on it. She thinks he’s lucky he has parents that buy him things. I say, we like to do it. She says he eats too many sweets, has too many toys. I put away what’s left of the pumpkin pie, the ice-cream and whipped cream. I run to the bathroom, splash cold water on my eyes and cheeks, comb my hair. I hear her telling him about her friend Paulie. He died years ago when they were kids--lost his nose and part of his face. He was hit by a car, while playing Red Rover. He was only five. His mother had said if she would have been playing with him, he would still be alive. I remember this story, run to them and finish it before she does, ending with: it doesn’t happen often. My mother insists, everyone has different levels of grieving. Sam wants to know how to play Red Rover.

        She knows it’s Sam’s bedtime; we hug her goodbye. My husband takes her out the door with bags of leftover turkey and gravy. Later, in his room, Sam calls to me, whispers he’s afraid. He asks how someone could lose part of a face, if the older boys who play hockey on our street could die that way. I assure him, they re careful. He asks me to sing to him. I lie along side him, hum Moon River, looking out his window, trying to remember some of the words.

A PIECE FOR MY BROTHER

A present from Mom:
Italian grain pie
bought at her neighborhood bakery

on our table after dinner.
I slice the sweet-bitter mix
of cheese, grain and citron.

"Save a piece for your brother,"
she says. He's at home waiting
for a cocaine drop, guzzling beer.

"You know he’s depressed," she insists.
I wrap up his portion in yellow cellophane,
place it on the counter near the door.

We swallow what’s left
of Easter dessert,
with Mom’s repeating

what he said when she phoned him
ten minutes before dinner began,
before she sat at the table and cried.
 

DETAILS AND ELABORATIONS
 

He gives me a book I can keep.
Open it, he invites, handing it to me.
Jewels appear: sapphires, emeralds, rubies, loosen
fall to floor; they’re everywhere. There’s
not enough room in this book with luminous lid.
I’ll hold gems in hands, pockets, maybe wear them—
hat or corsage glittering in air. They weigh me down,
but I don’t care; girl with a heavy stone heart, split open—
gaudy and bright baubles. And this man,
wizard with chisel, wants more
sits across the room, waits with an inquisitive stare.
 

Cathy McArthur writes poetry and children’s fiction. Her work has appeared in The Memphis State Review, Bellowing Ark, The Pedestal Magazine.com, Blue Fifth Review, and others. She currently attends the Masters in Poetry Program at The City College of New York, and teaches poetry to teenagers. Cathy is currently working on a collection of persona poems, and serves as program assistant for the Readings on the Bowery series, sponsored by Four Way Books.