Diagrammer of Sentences
In the corner of the living room,
huddled over my pink wooden desk,
brothers fighting, mother angry
because I’m not peeling potatoes,
I’m wandering in English homework —
Find the stately subject
a proper start.
What am I—subject or object?
Find the predicate,
its leaping, chaotic verb.
Seven of us crammed close
in that small house, bracing against
winter winds, luminous ice tricks.
Modify, shape, change.
Could words change my family?
There is language here.
Celtic roots, English derivations,
West Seventh slang.
My mother first gave me words.
But now when I write my own spells
she reads my journal,
destroys my grave, erotic notes.
Wind bangs against the house
in conditional tense.
Cold sets in our pavid bones.
My mother, argus-eyed,
worries scribble her face,
loneliness, a cave in both of us.
I want, I pray, I think—
How to parse
a labyrinth of longing?
I take my pen and diagram
a live tree, a sideways tree,
a sentence all my own.
I lived another time,
in a deep world beyond myself.
I will live there again.
Diagrammer of Sentences by Mary Rummel won fifth place in Saint Paul Almanac’s Break Through Writing Contest in the category of poetry.