Phyllis Mannan

Surrounded by Poppies

–after Paula Modersohn-Becker, “Old Poorhouse Woman
with a Glass Bottle,” Oil on canvas, 1907

She brought me to this garden of red poppies—
a young woman with paints and easel in a long bag.
Her thin fingers turned my head to the light,
tied the white bow under my chin, smoothed the skirt
of my Sunday dress. Folded my hands just so
to show my wedding band. I loved my husband,
but he left me nothing. If I owned this garden,
I would grow tomatoes … fennel … dill.

I want to please this woman—she is nice—
but I am old, my back hurts, and you see my color.
Whydoes she not ask the dainty white lady
in the house on the corner to hold this foxglove
with flowers like thimbles, to wear a red poppy
on her sleeve? I am late, I must make potato soup
at the poorhouse. Why can the artist not go there,
paint me in my blue apron holding a leek?

Dreams of Eating

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I ascend a bank covered with fine ice crystals. The sky, too, is white. At the top of
the bank the sky turns sapphire, filled with multicolored, magical birds like those
on the cover of the Audubon Society book. A hummingbird hovers nearby. A turkey
sandwich filled with cranberries and a pumpkin ice cream cone sit on a stump. I
take bites of each. This tastes like a real turkey sandwich … this tastes just like
pumpkin! I can do anything now. Eat without calories…fly?

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I walk up the main street of our village. Icicles drip from chimneys, snow covers the
sidewalks. But the air is warm. Footprints trail off into tall Douglas fir. I fit my feet
carefully into each impression. Beneath a fir tree, my father-in-law stands in his
overalls, eyes and cheeks glowing. I rush to meet him. He lived not far from here.
We stayed with him at his cabin many times. “Will you eat for me?” he asks …
“Mashed potatoes.” He reaches down, runs his fingers through the snow.

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A tall ladder leads to a loft filled with steam. White-uniformed people wash laundry
in old fashioned washing machines. In another area, white-aproned people cook in
a large kitchen. An older woman with a heavy German accent says, “Try some ______.”
(I don’t understand the word.) She offers me a small plate and points to a long table
laden with delicacies. I collect hors d’oeuvres like precious shells on a beach. But
another woman hands me a dinner plate filled with…what, the main course? I want
my small plate. Where is my small plate?

Phyllis Mannan lives with her husband and daughter in Manzanita, on the North Oregon Coast. She has published a memoir, Torn Fish: A Mother, Her Autistic Son, and Their Shared Humanity, and a poetry chapbook, Bitterbrush (Finishing Line Press). Her poems have appeared in Cirque, Cloudbank, North Coast Squid, Rain Magazine, Willawaw Journal, and elsewhere.