Sylvia Cohen

                                                                      “Tell them not to cry.

                                                                        Tell them in the storm

                                                                        A drop of blood is thinking…” 
                                                                                              -- Steve Becker

      

My mother is talking to the radio

My mother is talking to her plants

There is a talk show on the radio

My mother is talking to the talk show

She’s angry and the talk show isn’t listening

The radio is also angry at something

(I can’t tell what)

People are angry

The host of the talk show is cutting people off

Who want to say something

My mother is angry at that

She loves the talk shows

She talks to the radio

Gets angry at crazy callers and reactionary hosts

She tells me someone called up and said

“Joseph McCarthy was a great patriot, a great American”

My mother told me she once called up

And tried to say something about education in Cuba

“I saw it with my own eyes!” she told them

But the radio didn’t listen

The host said “Thank you for calling”

In a voice that said “I hate you”

And my mother is transplanting the plants

Which have grown too big for little pots

And now need big pots

The roots are all bunched up

Twisted around themselves a million times

My mother calls me in to help her

With a hammer she breaks the flowerpot I hold

“Look at these roots!” she cries

My mother with a hammer in her hand

My mother is talking to the radio

My mother is talking to the plants

I don’t want her to be cut off

I want my mother to be heard

I want my mother’s roots

-- twisted around themselves a million times

But still strong and surging with life –

To make their way

To make room

For her growth

My mother has had limbs chopped off

My mother has lived in a flowerpot way too small

This morning she described her life as a tiny circle

She traced the circle on the yellow blanket

She was sewing

Her eyes looked so sad

My mother is the sculpture of pain she made

My mother is beginning to sculpt her own life

Hammer in hand

At 61 my mother

Is talking to the world!

                                    -- New York, February 7, 1977 (from There is a Country)