Tuesday 29 October 2019

Tuesday Poem: "The Week Before She Died" by Elise Paschen


I dream us young, again,
mother and daughter back

on 69th Street inside

our old brownstone—across

from the church, patch of lawn— 


a house neglected, wrecked,

as if the family

had been forced at gunpoint

to move away. In corners

dirt stacked like miniscule


anthills; along the edges

of room—crumpled clothes, bodiless;

littered across the floor

dry-cleaning bags, vestiges

of what they once protected.


A Turkish scarf, embroidered

with sequins, glitter, beads,

tantalizes. My mother

holds it close, says, “You should 

wear it.” The doorbell rings.


At the top of the stairs

he waits for us to answer.

My mother’s ballet partner, 

Russian, stows something covert

behind his almond eyes. With three


regal strides he commands

our gaze, pronounces the red

brocade robe his, lofts high 

the scarf, the sash he flung

in Giselle, circling the empty 


living room. With mischief he bows

low before my mother. Her love

for him, a mountain. The doorbell 

chimes. A blond, blue-eyed dancer,

in epaulets, arrives.


She straightens shoulders, turns,

walks away. Rudy asks 

Erik, “Did you ever tell her 

about us?” No response. The secrets 

men keep, my mother knows. 

by Elise Paschen


For more information about poet, Elise Paschen, see:


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