In Her Altogether
by Nicole Callihan
My dad has to go, he says,
as my stepmother’s in her altogether,
sitting on the toilet, waiting to be
dried off, it’s like that now, he says.
He washed her too, answered my call—
Because. And this, the ravel and unravel.
The photo from 1982 of her
in a black bikini. Have they gotten
new towels? The green nubs, the birds
coming again and again to the feeder.
The lost baby, lost mother, lost hearing,
the drops in blood pressure, the plate
of grits and eggs at the Kuntry Kitchen,
the tissue paper holding the dentures—
how could I love her without harming
my mother? The number of times
I yelled to remind her that she wasn’t
my mother, would never be my mother,
was nothing like my mother. My idle hands,
my devil tongue. And, it was my mother,
she reminded me, who left my father.
Your mother, my stepmother said. And she
would be the one who stayed. The Michelangelo
print above their couch, the curio stuffed
with running trophies, a drawer full of spoons,
thimbles, hard-to-pay bills to the address
that’s never changed. I could drive my car
straight to Amity Lane, the red tips
finally grown back after Hugo. I could
knock. Some sort of peace offering.
Food for the fish in the pond outback
which has finally thawed. How wild
to see them swim again. Her arms around
his neck as he lifts her to the chair
and takes her back to bed. What makes us
turn from compassion? What makes us
believe love is two closed fists from which
we must choose, tap the right one, say,
and see the turned-over palm, the revelation,
a quarter maybe, or nothing? My body driving
south trying to find the fork in the road.
as my stepmother’s in her altogether,
sitting on the toilet, waiting to be
dried off, it’s like that now, he says.
He washed her too, answered my call—
Because. And this, the ravel and unravel.
The photo from 1982 of her
in a black bikini. Have they gotten
new towels? The green nubs, the birds
coming again and again to the feeder.
The lost baby, lost mother, lost hearing,
the drops in blood pressure, the plate
of grits and eggs at the Kuntry Kitchen,
the tissue paper holding the dentures—
how could I love her without harming
my mother? The number of times
I yelled to remind her that she wasn’t
my mother, would never be my mother,
was nothing like my mother. My idle hands,
my devil tongue. And, it was my mother,
she reminded me, who left my father.
Your mother, my stepmother said. And she
would be the one who stayed. The Michelangelo
print above their couch, the curio stuffed
with running trophies, a drawer full of spoons,
thimbles, hard-to-pay bills to the address
that’s never changed. I could drive my car
straight to Amity Lane, the red tips
finally grown back after Hugo. I could
knock. Some sort of peace offering.
Food for the fish in the pond outback
which has finally thawed. How wild
to see them swim again. Her arms around
his neck as he lifts her to the chair
and takes her back to bed. What makes us
turn from compassion? What makes us
believe love is two closed fists from which
we must choose, tap the right one, say,
and see the turned-over palm, the revelation,
a quarter maybe, or nothing? My body driving
south trying to find the fork in the road.
Winner of the 2023 Tenth Gate Prize and a 2023 Alma Award, Nicole Callihan has two forthcoming poetry collections: chigger ridge (The Word Works 2024) and SLIP (Saturnalia 2025). Other books include This Strange Garment (Terrapin 2023) and the 2019 novella, The Couples.
More at www.nicolecallihan.com.
More at www.nicolecallihan.com.