There were only three
of us in the house
my mother
my stepfather
and me
But at times my mother
would take me aside
to tell me things
even though the rooms
were large
Thus my introduction
to The Waste Land
It’s not that long a poem
and she had a small copy
With some of Eliot’s
other works
This changed modern life
she whispered
or one could say this poem
created modern life
She handed the book to me
She suggested I also
read Prufrock
I was in maybe seventh grade
I had started writing myself
I wondered if she
was encouraging me
or hoping I would take
a new hobby
as I would never be Eliot
I remembered she took
me out of ballet
when it became obvious
I would not perform on stage
after my baby appearance
as a grain of wheat
in Copelia
But the gift of The Waste Land
seemed sincere
I was already a mid-grade
Modernist having been
influenced by an imagist
poem of Williams’
the year before
My mother and I never
Discussed The Waste Land
again
although we joked quite a bit
about Prufrock
We never discussed
our shared depression
or the fact that my grandmother
had shock treatments
In the 1950s
though Meme was proud
of coming out of them fine
I feel my mother handed me
an unlikely link to family
history
She died just before I turned
twenty-one so if these
influences seem early
and rushed
I argue instead that there
was never enough time
anymore than there was
extra space in our dignified
house and stressful
family relations
to take to the center
of the room and speak
in full voice
