This June Gould Anthology includes six of Ingrid Bruck’s poems: Name/s, Stroke, Are we not more, Ode to Ron, Canned Peas & Gimme Sugar. April, 2020

Name/s

a lowercase world
of trans gender reversal
doubled by unisex angst

when I was a child
I didn’t know about lesbians
one day I would have to reckon
with girlhoods transformed 
and boyhoods abraded, 
I tried to decolonialize and bend,

to fit into the new post colonial world
but change is impatient and headstrong,
my niece wields the power
and revels in her manhood

Mary/Mitchell came out
in a FaceBook post to the family.  
I read the message from Mary
but it was written by a man.
Who was Mitchell Schwanson?
Why was MS writing from Mary’s page? 
Was Mary okay?

The enigmatic post said, “Up for adoption:
three chinchillas, two cats. 
The homeless shelter where I’m staying
doesn’t take pets. Mitchell Schwanson.”
That’s one more cat then when Mary left home
but I know those chinchillas—
Mary rented a truck to drive a big cat named Smoky
plus an immense cage with three chinchillas 
from New York to Arizona last year 
when she moved in with Maddie. 
Maddie must now be past-tense. 

Revolutions change names. 
I practice the shape of Mitchell.

***

Stroke

hermit woman, lift the little girl in your lap
hold her and recover from your stroke

S was one of the older siblings 
number three of nine, her misfortune
to born in a three year span, 

in between her brothers, ED and DA,
a girl sandwiched between two boys, 
lost in a crowd of nine with four sons
with a mother who doted on sons
because boys are considered important 

pick up the little girl cheated out of lap time
cuddle the little girl in your lap

we kids took care of each other 
S became little mother to baby brother 

that lasted until she left for  college
when S’s bed was passed to littler sister E
S missed her bed in the girls room 
and slept on the living room couch
when she came back to visit

clasp and fold the little girl in hugs 
burrow your head against her gold curls 

S worked her way through college
waitressed at an all-night diner truck stop
attended classes by day
the folks shipped her sister J
next off the shuttle bus came sister E
the landlady complained
S’s room was too crowded 

tell the  little girl you love her
give the little girl lap-time

S told her parents her boyfriend was coming to visit
but they didn’t make up the sofa bed for him
and made no provision for a bed for her
S crawled into J’s smelly bed
with a guinea pig and fleas but couldn’t sleep  
so she crawled in with Malcolm
and mom called her immoral

be a wild witch, younger sister, 
enfold your lovable self in your own lap

***

“Are we not more…”  

It took my grandparents three generations to achieve the American Dream. I’m the oldest daughter of my maternal grandparent’s oldest daughter, the first in the family to graduate college. My grandfather rewarded me with a gift of $500. A sizable gift. It would have paid tuition, room and board for one semester in 1968. 

Aili and Uno were Finnish immigrants who made it in America. They got what they wanted - land, house and family. Despite the Depression. Despite Uno’s being on a suspected persons’ list during the war. Because he was a Finn, America’s enemy during the war.  

My grandparents would do without to give their two girls every opportunity. They sent their daughters to school well dressed. To guarantee the girls spoke perfect English, only English was spoken at home. Alice and Mary, their daughters, passed as white Americans.

Mary, the younger one, adored her parents and married a man who looked just like dad. The older, my mother Alice, grew up to despise her parents with an embarrassing accent. She was like many children of immigrant parents--she accepted the advantages her parents’ sacrifices gave her but grew up to disdain them. Both girls proved their true American status by marrying a soldier in the army.

I was proud of my college degree. I earned what my mother, the high school Valedictorian, wanted for herself but never got. My dad used the GI Bill money to go to college but got derailed. He passed from soldier to college to nine children and never finished college.  

I used my grandfather’s gift money to buy a painting from a college professor. The oil featured an abstract line-painting of a pregnant woman. The lady-in-green with a see-through belly, exposed a baby inside for hope in the future. I brought home from college my own mother’s dream of motherhood.

***

Ode to Ron 

Let me tell you about Ron

a numbers man from the projects of Jersey City

Father - a reputed mafia who bolted (he hopes) 

Favorite uncle - a numbers runner, gave him a weekly allowance 

Childhood friend - "Lead-Head" Ed, who, age twelve

survived a swing from a lead pipe but never flinched.

Ron & Lead-Head enlisted together.

They escaped high school to join the fight in Nam-

Ron, a code breaker,

Lead-Head shipped to the front.

Back from Nam -  no place to go,

Ron slept in a phone booth.

Lead-Head motor-cycled into the dope scene.

Ron's life went to a wife and two kids, 

he took college classes on the GI Bill to pay the bills.

Numbers run in his family.

To reinvented himself, he changed his last name.

With single-minded determination, 

learned accounting, graduated with honors,

paving the way to his first job - city auditor.

He climbed the finance ladder to Directorship.

sumo wrestler 

pushes unruly dollars 

into straight lines

His motto: Hard work & numbers, enforce rules, count every cent!

Even as a widower, his routine invariant- 

Richards every night for take-out of steak & potatoes.

Ron sent unceasing invitations to Ed: 

Hey Lead-Head, are you up to poker? Friday night at Joe's. R 

No answer - his buddy's MIA.

Rumors say his friend is dead.

The silence tastes like a bowl of cornflakes 

but the poured milk is sour.

***

Canned Peas

After Morgan Parker’s poem, Afro

I’m thinking secrets and weapons in there

Canned peas—soggy and discolored

I hated them

My mother Alice fed a large family 

meals made from cans and boxes. 

She fed eleven on $25 dollars a week

 One can of tuna, one can of peas,

one can of mushroom soup(1),

a bag of crumbled potato chips—

we ate tuna casserole for dinner

All us kids picked out the mushy peas,

dull green and slimy 

as hydrangea after the first hard freeze.

Even the garbage disposal dog,

Rufus (2), under the table

refused the gift of peas

I spit mine into a napkin

when no one was looking

The little ones had a trick 

I only discovered later

when one table leg fell off— 

they dropped their peas 

down the hollow legs 

of the kitchen table (3)

I grow up feeling sorry for poor people,

I had no idea that was me  

_______________________________________________________

1. Campbell’s creamed soup - with the red and blue label- were a staple of my childhood

2. Rufus was a friendly slob of a dog. He loved kids and every bitch in heat in the neighborhood.

3. When the table leg fell off, I shook it. It sounded like a rainstick.

 

***

Gimme Sugar

I never want any more sugar highs 

I wanna cancel GMO club membership in New People of the Corn  

Scary studies about sugar posit a direct link between body weight mass and psychological pathology  

Other research claims that cancer cells feed on sugar--withhold sugar to kill cancer 

I know the street signs in Sugar-Hell. It’s easier to stay where I can get around

Bah! Do I listen? No 

Look at this sagging belly

I crave sugar and eat it

Look at these  drooping angel wings under my arms

Sugar turns to body fat

Witness this Reubenesque ass, these thighs 

I know better. So what do I do? Keep on doing what I’m doing  

Fat is a ball and chain on the scale dragging the needle higher

I’m dependable. I’m constant. A never-change-a-bad-habit kind of woman  

When no one is looking, I snitch sweets

Inaction is my answer

I’m a sugar burner recidivist  

What else can you expect?  

This gal’s personal motto is “Nothing Exceeds Like Excess.”  

Canned Peas

After Morgan Parker’s poem, Afro

 

I’m thinking secrets and weapons in there

Canned peas—soggy and discolored

I hated them

My mother Alice fed a large family 

meals made from cans and boxes. 

She fed eleven on $25 dollars a week

 

One can of tuna, one can of peas,

one can of mushroom soup,

a bag of crumbled potato chips—

we ate tuna casserole for dinner

 

All us kids picked out the mushy peas,

dull green and slimy 

as hydrangea after the first hard freeze.

Even the garbage disposal dog,

Rufus, under the table

refused the gift of peas

 

I spit mine into a napkin

when no one was looking

The little ones had a trick 

I only discovered later

when one table leg fell off— 

they dropped their peas 

down the hollow legs 

of the kitchen table

 

I grow up feeling sorry for poor people.

I had no idea that was me.