Discontent
By Janice Gould
We could hear her
knocking down strands of cobweb
from ceilings—sticky filaments,
sacs of eggs—as we woke most mornings
to a worm of discontent.
It lodged beneath the heart,
rubbed our frayed nerves,
gnawed at the gut, spleen,
ovaries. Filth
was Mom's first enemy, so each day
began with ritual cleaning: the stab
and sweep of the broom down the dark hall,
over the stained and scratched oak floors.
For weeks, she held her dust mop
one-handed, and with the other
cupped a hernia, while she swore
at us kids in that hard voice—a litany of our sins
and failures: sloth,
stupidity, secrecy.
We watched her
smash the spiders that ran, herky-jerky,
along the baseboards, while we ran, too.
Glaring at each other,
we gathered up the scattered
laundry, our father’s shoes,
his newspapers and tools, our books,
drawings, music, sweatshirts,
and jackets, whatever
we’d left lying around.
We were guilty, but good
at evasion. We cultivated
shrewish or obsessive behaviors of our own: my tough
older sister sneered and stalked out of the house
to meet her boyfriend;
my sweet younger sister
trembled and cried, comforted
by one of our many dogs.
I slammed doors, pounded them
with my fists, screamed, “Shut up,
shut up, shut up!” She couldn’t
leave us alone. She loved us
too much.
Though we were quick, she was
quicker. Her words stung.
We must have deserved it.
Copyright Credit: "Discontent" from Doubters and Dreamers by Janice Gould. Copyright © 2011 by Janice Gould. Reprinted by permission of the University of Arizona Press.