Ruth Margolin Silin
The Poem Calls
I heard the poem call my name
as clearly as my mother called me
in from play to practice “Fur Elise”
again, again, again.
The voice faded as I walked in among
the trees, and I dismissed it the way
I dismissed her voice it when she warned
“writing is not for you, you cannot
make a living just from words.”
I leaned against the nearest tree
and drummed my fingers on the moss,
skipping the crucial “C” as I did at
the recital and heard my mother’s gasp,
audible over the remaining notes of
the “Fur Elise”.
I wrote the poem in sixth grade and
got an “A” and took a deep bow at
I looked at my mother’s pained smile,
the smile that overtook her face when
someone praised her for her looks—or
her figure—or the curtains she sewed
by hand in pink to match the covering
on my bed.
We didn’t speak much on the way home.
I wrote another poem.