Poem | Erica Jong
Not With a Bang but
With a Whimper
(My mother died & the world did not end)
How I wish it were
apocalyptically dramatic—
the end of the world
Armageddon,
burning books of fierce fire,
horsemen with spears,
flaming suns sprung
from trebuchets,
dire projections of our stoned
fantasy lives,
awake, dreaming,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
But no.
Breath slips away
on pneumonia’s sweet white wings,
eyes fix on the snowy park & can’t see
but a blur of white, eggshell,
cream, buttermilk & smeared smog.
Both parents calmly left
this world of pain.
My one regret was not to be
there for Papa, Daddy
as I was for Mother, Mom, Mommy
(as I never called her)
Eda Mirsky Mann the glorious,
great mother of daughters
but no son.
Painter, illustrator, costume-maker,
designer of dresses she could cut & sew.
Designer of tsatskelech,
beloved wife, daughter, sister,
who never knew how loved
she was (or did she?),
flirt & party-maker
for her pals,
painters, musicians, actors,
but never crass colleagues
of her husband’s trade.
O how...