Sarah Sousa elaborates…

Self Portrait with Mabel, Rose, Lillianne, Fern, Mildred, Bea

My mother named me

little old lady. Named me:

startle-easily, little-flincher,

night-terrors-with-spiders.

I lived in a different century.

I was born rural

in a city of mills.

My mother named me

place of unreachable hills.

A temperance movement of one,

I was sober

as spring water. I was old

then I was older.

My mother named me

may-your-body-never-

surprise-you-with-want.

I was her easy pregnancy, asleep

by eight, awake when convenient.

I held the fetal position

like a moral obligation:

her ribs were unmolested

as a Victorian birdcage. They pried

my soft bones like ancient pottery

from between my mother’s hips

while she slept. An orphaned monkey,

a baby of the ‘70s,

I sucked the bright orange nipple

of a sterilized glass bottle, held

by some other woman

while my mother came-to. She named me

Mabel, Rose, Lillianne, Fern, Mildred, Bea;

names I wear like tarnished jewelry

pinned to the inside

of my bra for safekeeping.

They take turns speaking

through my mouth, choose

my handbags, prefer flat shoes.

They embody the word habit,

placing a napkin atop my glass

of water, one beneath to absorb the sweat,

carry a magnifying glass

to read menus. With them

I’m always the youngest in the room.

And nothing changes. They name me not-yet-

born, but predict a natural birth.

They ask:

do you believe us?

does it help you to believe in us?

The inspiration for this poem came in a recollection from my mother. Despite the fact that Sarah was one of the most popular girl’s names the year I was born, some female relatives complained that my mother had given me an old lady’s name. In her defense, my mother explained that from the moment I was born I looked and acted like a little old lady. The truth of this anecdote, however, runs deeper and is what I explore in the poem. My grandmothers, Rose and Lillianne, are included in the title. Rose was the one who pinned her jewelry to her bra for safekeeping and Lillianne was the family historian, tirelessly researching genealogy old-school before the internet opened up so many records to the hobbyist. I inherited my grandmother’s passion for history, family history in particular, and this poem is, in part, an homage to my female lineage on both sides. As the first poem in See the Wolf, it establishes the interconnectedness of the women in the collection and the fact that, even when these women are being victimized, they have more power as a collective organism than they would as individuals.

As the oldest child of a single mother who was the survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I think I accepted the ‘little adult’ characterization early. Being my mother’s easy, mature, and predictable child was something I could do to make her happy. My temperament was already well-suited to the role and I further cultivated it into a talent. So, the poem is a bit of ruthless self-reflection in that way. Some ghost of Sylvia Plath’s “The Disquieting Muses” haunts the poem for me as there’s a kind of sad inheritance being transmitted. Ultimately, though, this poem and the ideas behind it give me solace. I like to imagine carrying my female lineage around, for better or worse, allowing them to speak through me, relying on their wisdom and strength. There’s something very comforting in containing that collective ‘old lady’ energy.

Purchase See the Wolf here