Mama’s Ragdoll (a photo-album for Jane, her mother, and her granddaughter)

(March 5, 2004)
My friend Jane and I were discussing the relationships she has with her mother and granddaughter, and the difficulty she was having translating that into sculpture. The more we talked the more the words formed the picture in my mind. Jane asked if I would put those pictures in writing. When I first presented the poem to her there were only the two major stanzas and the bridge. She told me it wasn't finished. She was right.


Stocking footed
standing on the back stoop,
tiny hands clutching
cotton stuffed cloth—
limp from nights of being slept and dreamt on;
red polka dotted dress stained
at picnics and tea parties under the trees;
blue embroidered eyes smiling,
while innocent eyes search the open sky
for Mother flying away to meet Father.

Sepia snapshots drift.
Black and white photos linger.
Full color images flash.

Knee highs and flats
sitting by the bedside,
older hands caressing
skin and bone—
limp from days of not sleeping, no longer dreaming;
pale rosy flesh drained
from dinners and cocktail parties under the stars;
fading gray eyes smiling
while mature eyes scour the open Sky,
Mama goes the way Daddy went.

Silver halides scan.
Shades of gray focus.
High resolutions dim.

Barefoot toes
pad across the floor,
chubby hands clasping
terry cloth covering—
limp from not napping, video dreams;
sunburned freckles gained
from snacks and games under the sun;
baby blue eyes smiling
while tender eyes ponder an open sky,
as Mom jets off with Dad.