BECOMING MOTHER
You had the same book,
While I Was Gone,
on your shelf the last time
I was home. Out from separate
rooms, we stood. Nearly
the same clothes. Same
corticolimbic systems, we
ate that entire room filled
with people, then easily
didn’t go out
for days. Witnesses
to our private castle
of banter stepped back
against the wall. Even
the gap
between politics, narrowed.
I’m contemplating a cocktail
cart, and I carry
your shoulder bag that keeps
falling off. You once picked up
a wild goose just so your grand
child could pet its crown. Lately,
I, too, can pick up
anything: feather, roadkill,
injured rabbit. I repair
home appliances
myself. I crack an egg
every day, and I’ve been cooking
dishes with all the spices
cleaned out from your
apartment, preparing
ingredients
in little ramekins. I can’t
relax until I’ve pulled
the weeds. I’ve begun walking
at night. I glance in every
mirror. Mom,
I’m coming
towards you. I know that
right fist placed under the right
side of the chin
and how to hold
a grudge like a stone
fruit. Now this radiant
swell in my chest,
successive laughs
like two glasses
of champagne,
and I don’t think it’s in vain
to summon, at last, to fill
me with your breath, your
blood, your every
drop, all the tropes: friend,
survivor, dreamer, evil twin.
YEW TREES
My neighbor who loves color
asks, “Why don’t you cut them
down?” Yes, they’re a filler,
but a noble choice for hedges:
berries, evergreen, the snow
a lace shawl, a shelter
for squirrels, rabbits, families
of birds. My mother, too, loved
color. She watered her community
flowers and tended to her own
patio: daisies, roses, dahlias, vibrant
as the Monet paintings she admired.
The Christmas Eve before she died,
she took us to Paris 66 Bistro
in Pittsburgh, heated patio and pine
branch sprays on a long table
with escargot, greens, chestnut soup,
truffles, persimmon compote,
Wellington with sorrel, a tree-
shaped dessert. A smile so wide,
she said: “This is how I want you
to remember me.” Drought-resistant
and hardy, these trees can thrive on rainfall
alone. I once read weeping
is the human activity that most drains
energy. Yews still stand sentry at the head
of a path in Monet’s garden. I stand
on my East Lansing sidewalk considering
how there is so little color in my lawn,
and the yews have become so wide now.
I have to reach to prune the growth. I fall
into the needles.
THIS I BELIEVE
The sky is only giving
a shake, raining torn
leaves. Theology
is something we adopt.
Food is its own
religion. There is some
upturned belly
of cloud on which
to sleep, a cloud the contour
of a possum, a rabbit.
The simplicity of a walk,
short or long, the scent
of spring and the sound
of the word lake. Rivers
and streams flowing into lush
gardens near dwellings
with precious stones
along streets with a girl’s
ball gently
rolling reflecting
the sun. A wilted armchair
of memory shines. Sacred
texts don’t have the final
word. Freedom
to embrace mystery, to think un-
thinkable thoughts, imagine
the unimaginable. There is
something in the distance
running toward you. There
is no heaven without dogs.
Bio:
Janine Certo is the author of four poetry collections, including Becoming Eve, forthcoming in 2026 from Bordighera Press; O Body of Bliss, winner of the Longleaf Poetry Prize (2023); and Elixir, winner of both the New American Poetry Prize and the Lauria/Frasca Poetry Prize (New American Press and Bordighera Press, 2021). She is an associate professor at Michigan State University.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 