Joy Yourcenar

Travaille Memere's hands, mains mine, mains of my mother, lifting me, casting me down, gripping hard, were never still, jamais encore, Memere qu'elle fait belle, Maine hands never still, crotchets fields of Queen Anne's lace doilies Beaux champs bloom where I'm planted, JesusMaryJoseph, I've shown you a thousand times, ma petite, ma jeune fille. joi to be, Memere decorates ma jejune self avec rainbow afghan chevrons, tries to make me mistress of the intricacies of fleur-de-lis three needle mysteries, passing history on through embroidery hoops and quilting rings My petite poor parle anglais Fingers cannot mimic, cannot trace. my doigts displaced fine beading, quelle stupide! Vite! Vite. not good for anything finer than winding skeins around the future autour hands. Pearls before, jamais but not pour moi spending a day learning touloose single chain une entire ball of fuzzy golden yarn. Depeche toi! Encore! Encore! Her bouche firm, mouth sewn up tight, knitting needles click clack Her disapproval, thinks my failure mocks her. "Mon Dieu, you kids make me crazy, I'm too old for this." Who's the crazy one? Hooked and needled, Notre Dame, Notre Dame, s'il vous plaît, I just wanted to sit next to her, je voudrais, je voudrais but my prayers went un(e)answered. Memere said all those books had ruined me, said my stuck-up convent fingers thought themselves too fine for useful work, never believed I saw poésies in her hands, her travaille my travail until I knit one, pearl none, take up this pen To justify these idle hands.

Copyright © 2000 Joy Yourcenar All Rights Reserved