Monique Ferrell

THE FLOOD

“Weariness has, in fact, won in this room.”                                                                                                                       —Lorraine Hansberry

                               A Raisin In The Sun

the tiny room is empty   no one here to perform the ceremony

  

yet the water stands                         

                                                                                                   

I have   it seems   walked foggy-eyed into a baptism of sorts

no elders behind me   weeping in the pews   no guttural amens

the olive branch to the pastor’s sermon   neither are there sing-songy

negro spirituals   to accompany my cleansing

just me   the dull-grey bathroom tiles   and every tap overflowing

 

I am mistaken again

 

someone should tell you   that you will remember nothing   soon after the words

she is dying   pass between the doctor’s lips   you will cease looking both ways

before crossing streets   cut ties between yourself and friends   because lunch                                             cocktails and catching up   feel cruel in a world that she is leaving

 

you will be unable to sleep   at first it will be the restlessness

evolving into night terrors  for even id and ego

are confused about how best to navigate the world without her

the man you love will revisit every room you have left

                                                                     

turning down lights

ensuring the gas is off

                                                                                                                          

or that you have pulled your keys   from the front door

for you are no longer credible   to yourself

 

you cry until you break   rebuilding for brief respites   sojourns to the market

so that your house does not starve   in the middle of her dying

                                                                                                                                           

nothing more is safe   you reside in a world made loose

once held together by her prayers

 

and now this

 

the flooding room  a flooded room

to match the tidewater of your pain

 

we are not meant to lose our mothers   no matter the age

are not built to suffer the indignity   anguish   confinement of spirit

the infinite wondering of what this all means now

 

when you have questions   and you haven’t quite finished growing up yet

have no children of your own  and therefore   are still hers

and you are searching still for her true name

                                                                                                                   

not what she is called    but the name she has longed to answer to

                                                                                                                               

and you have much to say   a desire to gift her your true name

the one you have learned to call yourself   ride   nay  float upon                                                                                  

even when it is difficult

                                                 

and you haven’t gotten to the part yet   when you are meant to become friends

swapping honest stories about the hard-going of black skin

  

no matter the variation

                                                                                                          

haven’t yet talked of the detailed mystery

of breasts   hips   thighs

thought   flesh   the matter of life

 

it ought to set your body to stone

the knowing-ness  of the coming world without her

and yet you breathe out of habit

 

forgetting what you need to remember   like now

that you are cleaning your home   a sojourn   brief respite

so that your house does not starve while she is dying

 

pretending as she begins to forget

living while the collapse of life has begun within her

 

perhaps  today  you forgot on purpose  because the rising water feels good

about your ankles   it is settling    cool   full of intention

 

perhaps  today  you will take your time with this mishap

clean it away  in a minute or two   maybe five   later

 

and sit instead   passing the water over your body

face   hands   your dreaded hair

 

because she has taught you how

 

to clean the fruit   bathe the meat   prepare

your black body   for each new day

 

even this

 

the soon-coming   of the going on   without her

 

Monique Ferrell is an award-winning writer. An author of both poetry and fiction, her work was featured on The Slowdown with American Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith and has appeared in noted creative writing magazines, journals, and anthologies: Bellevue Literary Review, Inflectionist Review, Reed Magazine, American Poetry Review, Antioch Review, North American Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Quarterly West, Valley Voices, New York Quarterly Review, Token Entry, Out of The Rough, Rabbit Ears, and Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song, among others.

Ferrell has received poetry honors from Jacar Press (the Julie Suk Award), the Black Caucus of The American Library Association (BCALA), and Winning Writers (Tom Howard Award)... Full Profile