Three Poems by Caroline Sobolewski

Love Colossal

I wonder how I’d explain it
to your racing wild-eyed mind
if in calmer moments you asked me
the aim of it all; this life.

Pretty memories have you, thus far:
unpacking stuffed stockings filled with chocolate oranges
napping in a hammock with your head on my chest
capturing turtles and clenching beads

all your talents that cause pride to swell and
countless worlds in which to study and delight

But wounds and shadows linger too
in your still budding tender heart

And this striving we all do
and the worry I see in you
over what your future may hold
What is it all for?

I like to think I know
I think it is innate
that this life is big and beautiful
and love colossal when it washes over

But how do I send that knowledge
into your heart,
absent all the years and hours
of experience and growth
that lead us to it?

How do I make you trust me?
How to teach faith
and wonder
and hope?

I just want to quiet your young mind
place my hands upon your temples
my forehead against yours
and transfer joy

Absorb and do away with
all your trauma
all your fear

I ache to be the haven
where you find peace

 

How we talk now

Is that you, up there
behind the moon on clear nights
seeing me?

I told little brother to take a ride
down the road.
Told him to head out past
the orange trees in their groves
down to Our Lady of Good Harbor cemetery.
Told him to bring a six pack
and sit and have a chat with you.
Get his mind right.
And to pick me up some tomatoes
on the way back.

Did you put that idea in my head?
I can almost hear you chuckling now.

I wish you’d learned to live
less fitfully.
I wish someone had helped you
sand down those bristly spots
those closeted wounds
and petulant grudges

Some say
death opens a space
for us to come to know each other
even better than we did in life.
That in time, a new means of
communicating
draws our souls closer together,

So

I’m listening
I’m paying attention
I’m sitting at the table
across from you.
Your thick gray hair is mussed and wild
crinkles form at the corners
of your eyes as you laugh,
sipping your neat vodka
and peeling a tomato.
Television news blaring in the background
and the smell of étouffée
on the stove.

 

Witness to life

There’s this patch of skin on two of my fingers
that, from time to time, gets dry and itchy.
And like a child (though I know better), I scratch it.
It gets worse.
It itches more, and now it’s turned red and I
know it will get worse still, so I resolve to leave it alone.

But it’s a relief to rub my ring up against it,
or stick my fingers between the cap of the pen and its clip,
and move it around, the same way I sometimes
rub the ties in the waistband of my pajama pants
between my fingers.
A nervous habit
like pushing the seams of my sweater sleeves under my fingernails
until it hurts.
Or twirling my hair, just like my daddy used to do.
I like the sensation. It soothes me.

Now the weather is colder and the air dry
the patch of skin has gotten worse.
It’s cracked and it bleeds sometimes,
I moisturize all day
but when my hands get wet and then dry,
I have to do it all over again and I forget.

This happened during Covid.
the dermatologist
says it’s stress related and I should keep my hands
dry and moisturized. How can I ever?
My hands are wet all day long!
I have dishes to wash and a child to bathe-
my own self to bathe and tomatoes to peel and lemons to squeeze.
You can’t cook with dry hands.

But it’s starting to become painful, and I need to let it heal.
So tonight, I asked my teenager to help with the dishes.
He showed slight concern for the skin
in the nonchalant way that a fifteen-year-old boy does
and dutifully rinsed and scrubbed, even though usually
his job is only to put them away.

It was a small effort, no great gesture.
And still my heart swelled with pride at how he’s grown.
Who he is becoming and all the things he has overcome.
Like losing you. His father, so young, and I may have been
much older when I lost mine
but boy did I throw a thirty-five-year-old fit!
And thrash around for a while there.
I hadn’t really thought about that being a thing we shared.
Being orphaned, every one of us.
But I did, right then.
And then I had a selfish thought.

Here I am, witnessing his life, seeing him
leave that coffee ring on the inside of that mug and
holding back my notes, because he’s helping me.
He will find his own way, and I’ll get to watch.
Mothering (in this moment, this week) well.

I have no need of immortality.
And I miss a lot of things.
Right here in the kitchen tonight
I miss you witnessing me.

 

Caroline Sobolewski grew up in the suburbs of New Orleans and fondly remembers time spent on her daddy’s land down in Buras, Louisiana. She was raised Catholic and is a product of all the mysticism, ritual and guilt that entails. Family, spirituality and loss are the ever-present themes in her work. She has felt compelled to write both poetry and prose since she learned to read and is finally putting some out there for publication, recognizing that the sharing of words is the whole point.