Poems - Book 3 - Artist in Residence 2021
Our third and final installment from 2021 Artist in Residence Victoria Hurtado wraps up her reflections on mothering.
As the speaker mourns, she comes back to her imaginative roots to paint pastoral images by each stanza. These images, although they have no truth in them, still have connections to the reality of the past and the present. Underneath the direct content, there are subtle moments of grief, and even helplessness. The surreal descriptions still find its way back to the melancholy and the death of her grandmother. This poem makes a sound statement of producing poetry; writing poems has its own eccentric characteristics of mothering.
These hands, I use for
crying & things after
these hands are made
for throwing fruits
at caravans after a night
of shame
thrifting for clothes/
pieces that make me
look tall
hands for a wedding ring without
someone to cradle //OD on wedding cake, it’s love//
some fingerprint nonsense
on wallpaper these fingers
intertwining with the roots
on wet dirt
//i could go without them//
ego punishment/ garnish
these skinny witch hands
nerves heavy of botany //what does it mean when they keep looking?//
wishing they looked seductive
//iron kissing sun
handwashed linen eyes looking entirely back//
fingers with heavy jewelry from dead people
so I know what it feels like
let them hold me for
the love we missed
these things after //long evening debating whether to cut me off//
after years of disobeying
the theory of living
these hands
displace/
me/ great blood
holds fertility in writing
editor: This poem holds a great sense of fear and purpose as a loved one is dying. The speaker is the only one looking at the grandmother as she passes away. She realizes she had to take on the role of guiding her out from this life and reminding her how loved she is. This metaphorical change in the household helps remind the speaker she is a vessel for others and realizes how difficult that can be since it all revolves around love.
Paloma Piquito de Oro/ Series of Mothering
I have to
see this woman quiet/her
efforts to bring family to america
under the greatest willow trees as I see her
just now/ my mother said you have to
see her die, me whispering
I have to/
corn husk hand picked
sweet corn skin turns
my favorite interesting purple/ now gives
me a reason to hate it/ I’ve never
been so loving
to one body
was/ is a slight sky slanted
eyes sloped through a faint
breathing & swooping through
mine & her own
grieving books say
words do not mean
anything anymore/
my eyes/ I caress/ simple
my dimensions/ my eyes, filled
with this love/ tu cuerpo con
estos vasos
this body
sentimental & displayed
with her only son seamed into fear &
deflated grandson sitting
on windowsill & there I am
the one looking at a dying
woman/ stunned/ usando mis
ojos/ wind said let it
caressing her hands as I would want
once I die/ circled plum warmth as sunrise
jaw slanted
& closing with her upper lip for
an anticipated breath/ how anatomy
can turn personal/
déjame que yo te quiera
oigo, siento,
estoy aqui
¿y que mas?
esperando, el tiempo/
dijo que usted también
está esperando/ el dolor termina
I’ll be waiting to say
to my tio
I hear nothing & look at a mans’ eyes
graciously for once
in my life
watch the frames grow boungavillea/ stamped
vintage creating to swelled sunlight simmered
a great end/ pumpkin vines in emptiness
float out to a forest green sea/ see the greater things
buscando amores
ya lloré/ ¿ahora que?
fijate, I can look into
dying eyes/ nourishing my livelihood
& feel my own defeat & see myself
melt into my family, finally.
Why did it take this much/ el gran amor/ to see
how important you are?