Noel Sloboda
Visitation
Nobody knew who invited the banshee
to Mother’s wake. But everyone feared
asking the hag to leave. Swaddled
in blue and black robes caked with clay
she hid her face behind crimson
and silver locks that glistened
in the last light of dusk.
Gnarled overgrown toenails tipped
gray, bare feet and she reeked
of moss, cigar smoke, and rosemary.
She bore a heavy stone bowl, blood
sloshing over the sides as she staggered
forward on bowed legs, a cherry trail
smeared behind by her naked soles.
Suddenly, the banshee began to wail.
It was a wordless tune we all knew
yet never had heard in church.
The melody was like creaking branches
in an old growth forest shaken by December
winds blowing from east to west.
The banshee’s song startled Mother to life.
Up she sat, removed the rosary
from between icy palms, then lurched
out of her fancy box to size up the family.
My brother’s tie was too short in front.
My brown belt clashed with my black suit.
Dad had missed a button on his shirt,
which, Mother snorted, certainly wasn’t fresh.
Spying the banshee, she paused
to squint, her brow bunching
like a snake coiled into a knot.
Mother’s voice was shards of broken
glass grinding in her throat:
“And what do you think you’re at?”
It was the same line used on Aunt Judy
who had asked one Christmas dinner
if Mom had followed every step
of Nana’s recipe for creamed corn.
Aunt Judy had puddled to the floor
before sliding to the kiddie table.
Highlights in the banshee’s hair dimmed
as she staggered backwards, tangling
a foot in her robes. Off balance, she splashed
blood from her bowl all over our shoes.
“Someone so old,” Mother spat, “ought to know
how to dress for a formal occasion.”
The banshee froze—uncertainty in her eyes—
then vanished without a sound.
Mother’s gaze dropped from our ashen faces
to our blood-spattered feet, and she rumbled:
“Now you’d better do something
about those damned Oxfords
if you expect me to keep quiet
and go back to sleep.”
_______________
Noel Sloboda has published two poetry collections, seven chapbooks, and hundreds of poems in journals and magazines. He teaches at Penn State York.
Author’s Backstory: This poem started as part of a writing workshop in which everyone was playing around with challenging expectations for commonplace phrases. My initial premise was inverting the notion of being “scared to death”— to instead have someone be scared to life. It seemed like a banshee’s screech would do the trick. Then the person scared to life became Mother, not my own mother but a composite figure of severe and imposing matriarchs I have known. I discovered that she was more intimidating than the monster that had roused her. Such individuals as Mother tend to have long afterlives, hanging around in the minds of family members even after being formally laid to rest.
Editor’s Comments and Image Credit: The input phrasing to Wixel: “Mother scared to life by a banshee, she hid her face behind crimson and silver locks of hair. She had gnarled toenails tipped in gray. She carried a heavy stone bowl with blood sloshing over the sides, and she wailed.” (A Reverse Image search produced no suspicious connections.)