Strawberry Moon
by: Mary Oliver
1.
My great-aunt Elizabeth Fortune
stood under the honey locust trees,
the white moon over her and a young man near.
The blossoms fell down like white feathers,
the grass was warm as a bed, and the young man
full of promises, and the face of the moon
a white fire.
Later,
when the young man went away and came back with a
bride,
Elizabeth
climbed into the attic.
2.
Three women came in the night
to wash the blood away,
and burn the sheets,
and take away the child.
Was it a boy or girl?
No one remembers.
3.
Elizabeth Fortune was not seen again
for forty years.
Meals were sent up,
laundry exchanged.
It was considered a solution
more proper than shame
showing itself to the village.
4.
Finally, name by name, the downstairs died
or moved away,
and she had to come down,
so she did.
At sixty-one, she took in boarders,
washed their dishes,
made their beds,
spoke whatever had to be spoken,
and no more.
5.
I asked my mother:
what happened to the man? She answered:
Nothing.
They had three children.
He worked in the boatyard.
I asked my mother: did they ever meet again?
No, she said,
though sometimes he would come
to the house to visit.
Elizabeth, of course, stayed upstairs.
6.
Now the women are gathering
in smoke-filled rooms,
rough as politicians,
scrappy as club fighters.
And should anyone be surprised
if sometimes, when the white moon rises,
women want to lash out
with a cutting edge?
The Strawberry Moon coincides with the summer solstice--when daylight rules, and moonlight lasts scant hours. Of course, after the solstice, night starts nibbling away at the seconds of summer. Darkness takes over.
Poet Sandy Cisneros once wrote, "Maybe all pain in the world requires poetry." I agree with that. Oliver's poem agrees with that, too. Her great-aunt's wounds are deep and bloody, and she never recovers from them. Instead, she retreats from the world and everything in it that causes hurt or sadness. Oliver transforms that sadness into an aching narrative that ends in righteous anger.
If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you already know that I have few secrets. I am not great-aunt Elizabeth Fortune. I will never hole up in an attic and cocoon myself away. I know that life isn't a Hallmark card. More often than not, life is a Mary Oliver poem, full of beauty and wonder, as well as scars and longing. Yet, even scars can be wondrously beautiful because they indicate you've been through a war and survived.
Thanksgiving is next week, and Christmas comes fast on its heels. I'm trying to embrace gratitude right now, even though next Thursday isn't going to look like any Thanksgiving I've ever experienced. My daughter will be celebrating the holiday in Wisconsin with her significant other's family because of a grandmother whose health is failing. My closest siblings have decided to do their own Thanksgiving thing by themselves. I wish them well. Thanksgiving is about counting your blessings, not settling scores. I'm not going to spend the day angry and resentful and sad. Only turkeys need to feel bad on Thanksgiving.
Have I given into anger and sadness these last few days? Sure. But then I realized that I was only making myself miserable. I don't need anyone's help to do that. I've documented my struggles with darkness in this blog and in my poems. At the moment, light is fading, and night is taking over my being. I can feel it. It's happened before, and it's happening again.
But here's the thing about night: there is still light in the midst of it. Stars and planets, galaxies and nebulae that shine down on us. That light may be millions of lightyears away, but it is still there. Guiding us. I hope that the people in my life who are struggling (with sadness or anger or grief) realize this.
Saint Marty wishes them all light and love now and throughout the coming season.
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