Coming Out of Capricorn

One thing I'm sure of -- my mother's
garnet ring will be my garnet ring
when she's gone. It's in her will.
Capricorns, practical,
down to earth, our birthstone
so deeply red it could be black.

Deep as her body hidden
warm and private under flannel;
goat-footed, she digs into life
as into a hillside, roots her hands
on the table, knocks wood,
balances her body in a mattress hollow
the shape of my father.
She tugs at stubborn tufts,
socks from the dryer,
needles through cloth,
faith out of genuine cow's hide,
gold leaf, the laying on of hands.
She pulls my hands, my arms
around her shoulders, pulls
stories from my lips, blankets
herself in lies. She pulls
her own reflection from my eyes.

Mother, I excommunicate myself
from the church of Capricorn;
can't be careful, don't know how
to keep myself in line, like water
I waver, leap and fall, blue scarves
or sheets in the wind. So many
empty socks, like broken commandments,
men left without others in line,
jobs and flats and acquaintances
dropped gently as leaves.
I fell away from marriage
as I fell away from God,
as easily as the fetus
fell away and let go.

I give myself to the witches of Capricorn,
stubborn women who listen
to the language of the tongue,
the dark and wet, red jewels,
we take care of each other
for only as long as we care
for each other, and balance
by leaning into the wind that spirals
through us, our bodies curved
lines, our lines so curved
we fall, practically,
into ourselves.

ãElizabeth Terry
1990