(Poem) Woman/Rising by Mary Saracino

Pomegranate tree photo by Mary Saracino

I

I watch you in the kitchen

kneading dough on this Friday morning.

Your arms are strong, muscles stretch and pull,

pushing the dough,

rolling it, pushing it again

with your palms in smooth,

rhythmic motions:

fold, press, turn

fold, press, turn

massaging the off-white mass

into an oblong mound of potential bread.

II

I am proud of your strength,

the command and control you exert

in measured steadiness.

You are certain of your power.

Now, the kneading done,

you place the dough in a bowl,

covering it with a dish towel,

and patiently wait for it to rise.

Then you rest, content in the knowledge

that the dough will know when it is ready,

letting the minutes drift on,

not even looking at the clock.

It is not necessary.

Intuitively you sense when it is time.

III

Perhaps it is my youth,

but I lack your patience.

Can I learn the secret of your calmness?

Can I take a simple kitchen lesson

and apply it to my life?

I am kneading my Self,

Straining and stretching,

pushing, pressing,

trying to shape, to form my life

to smooth out the air pockets

and strengthen the fiber, the texture of my dreams.

I am clumsy, lacking your fluid motion.

My inexperienced hands are not as strong

or as steady as yours.

And I am forever in a hurry,

wanting my dough to rise

without allowing it its full measure of time.

Impatiently, I peek beneath the dish towel,

interrupting the slow and steading rising process.

I lack the wisdom to know,

to feel the fullness of my potential,

to let my power rise and expand.

IV

Can you teach me?

Is this strength an heirloom

passed from mother to daughter,

from you to me?

Did your mother mystically transmit

this power to you

one spring morning when you were young?

Have I, too, finally come to my inheritance?

I need to know.

Author’s Note: I wrote this poem about my mother, a long time ago when I was a young woman.

Meet Mago Contributor, Mary Saracino – Return to Mago E*Magazine