Chicken Sestina
Once
upon a time
or countless times each mother named Amy
has also been a monster. This has led
her to say I’m sorry or, in the beginning, Mommy is sorry,
although it’s also true that sometimes she or the monster wasn’t
sorry. It’s not that she wasn’t
making an effort. Amy is generally tenderhearted. Once
in 2002 Amy cried at the sink over a raw chicken. I’m so sorry,
chicken, she whispered as she rinsed its pinky hollows. At the time
this particular Amy was a new mother, and the way those five pounds lolled
in her hands, knobby spine just under the skin, was too familiar. Amy
sniffled as she rubbed it down with salt and stuffed it with garlic. Amy
could make a good chicken, and she wasn’t
a bad mother—she never cooked her children—although she fumbled
their little bodies, their tiny hearts. It is hard not to. Once
you understand the epic sweep of mother, disappointment is a matter of time.
Your body, your time is not your own. And the kids, the kids aren’t sorry,
they’re just being kids, then the monster rages and again is sorry.
Once Amy asked her son, to whom she is not yet but might someday be Amy,
if he can remember a time
that he was afraid of her. If ever, she said cryptically, he wasn’t
sure what would happen next. A child’s memory is terrifying, and once
she said these words she regretted them. But also he’s entitled
to say his truth, Amy thought. I don’t understand, he replied. He wanted to be led
through the exercise, and so she fumbled, Just wondering. And I am sorry
if it’s true. And If it is it would be okay, you can say it (and confirm that once
or many times she wasn’t Mommy or even Amy
but some larger monster because, to be honest, it wasn’t
hard for Amy to list of a dozen possibilities). He thought in silence and as he did, time
slowed. The smell of roast chicken enveloped the kitchen. Finally: I don’t remember a time
when it was more than you just being, you know, annoyed. And Amy was filled
with relief and affection and the realization that he probably wasn’t
being honest. And while she was sorry
for this, Amy
was also grateful that the boy, who’s not yet but will soon be a man, had spared her this once.
For those moments that I’m sure you do remember: I am sorry, mon cher
poulet ami. I’m sorry too that the bigger world will be monstrous. But that I led
you to this kitchen with me, or the world beyond it? I’ve never been sorry. Not even once.
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