Elizabeth S. Wolf

June 10, 2022

“When the Phone Rings” by Elizabeth S. WolfPosted by

Elizabeth S. Wolf

WHEN THE PHONE RINGS

while you’re visiting your father,
and I know it’s you because
it’s your ringtone, the notes in a tune
you chose, so it would be bright and
I would know it was you, and
answer my phone, so it’s a sound
both buoyant and urgent, it’s a
need in three notes, and while I wish
you weren’t visiting your father,
since it upsets you when you do, there’s
always some part of the story you’ll
tell me that’s off, that raises an
alarm, a flag, but after all this time
we don’t need subtle clues, do we,
we know he’s not right, so is it wise
to visit him again but in the back
of our minds is the night he was so
stoned on the phone and then dead
on the men’s room floor—
but they brought him back—
and so you go, again, to his new
sober living apartment because what if
next time he is gone, what if, and so
you go visit and I answer the ringing phone
for you to tell me you hiked up a hill
so high you saw all the way to Boston and
there were clouds reflected in the glass
of the Hancock building, like the blue sky
was both solid as a tower and as
gossamer as hope and anyway
you are on the road and your
favorite artist just dropped an album
so you need me to stay off our shared
Spotify so you can sing out loud
all the way home.
 

—from Rattle #75, Spring 2022
Tribute to Librarians

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Elizabeth S. Wolf: “I got my MLS in the long-ago times, before the internet, back when electronic searches were expensive and cool and run by librarians. I wrote a hypertext glossary for the National Agricultural Library as a beta tester for this radical new tool. I worked the reference desk at a university, the circulation desk at a high school, and moved into database design, marketing, and technical support. At EBSCO I worked on the Literary Reference Center and the Poetry and Short Story Reference Center. One of my bucket-list goals is to get one of my poetry books included in their collections. ‘When the Phone Rings’ was written at Fall Writerfest at the Pyramid Life Center in response to a close reading of Ross Gay. It was great to get away and write and there was no Wi-Fi or cell service. A plus for concentration but frustrating when you’re used to being able to google definitions and synonyms and etymology to validate word choices. I left the retreat and went straight to a public library in the Adirondacks. True story. Shout out to the library on the second floor of town hall, across from the public beach at Schroon Lake.”

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August 8, 2019

“Recycling the Travel Section” by Elizabeth S. WolfPosted by

Elizabeth S. Wolf

RECYCLING THE TRAVEL SECTION

My family always read the newspaper.
When we sat for dinner—6:30 every
weeknight—you better know your news.
Sunday papers were a special treat.

For years after the secret was spilled
my mother separated the Travel section
from the Boston Sunday Globe and sent it
unread to recycling. If she had known, she said,
she would have traveled. With her children.
My mother loved London and always
wanted to return. You can’t get that back.

And all that time estranged
from her children, fighting her own
decline. Some things can’t be fixed.
Splintery shards remain, like the glasses
that slipped from her numb hands onto
cold hard floor.

Ma, if you’re still listening: I have taken
my daughter to the ends of the earth.
California. London. Aruba. India. We saw
sunrise at the Taj Mahal. We have hiked
in the Amazon rainforest, and on top
of the Great Wall of China.

Ma, if you still care: I carry a piece of your
jewelry with us, wherever we go.

—from Did You Know?
2018 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Elizabeth S. Wolf: “I write because telling stories is how we make sense of our world, how we connect with our world, how we heal, and how we celebrate. I write to find the sliver of truth within the plethora of information; mining my monkey mind for a trace of grace.”

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July 9, 2019

“July 1993” by Elizabeth S. WolfPosted by

Elizabeth S. Wolf

JULY 1993

When my grandfather died,
lawyers wept. The family
held a roast, presided over by his
younger daughter, at a hotel
by the funeral home,
probably on his dime.

It made me a little uneasy.
“It’s just not right,” I said.
My aunt said, “Let’s have a
contest. Who did he say
the worst thing to? Who did he
treat the most badly?”
My grandfather hadn’t spoken to me
in years. I went home.

The next morning over breakfast,
my aunt told me I was declared
the winner. “But I wasn’t there,”
I said. “Exactly!” said my aunt. “You
were excommunicated, dear.
Shunned. Cast out.”

I took a sip of coffee and waited.

“Did you know, when your father died—”
“When I was 16,” I chimed in—
“Exactly. Well. Your grandfather, my father,
declared you were such a bad daughter,
it killed your father. And that’s why
he so suddenly died.”

I was stunned.
“Really?” I asked.

“Truly,” she answered. “Neither man
thought you did enough
to take care of your mother. ”

“I was a child,” I said. “And, I didn’t know
that she needed to be taken care of.”

My aunt reached for her purse.
“Did anyone ever tell you?” she asked.

“No. Not until this very moment,” I replied.

My aunt poured a nip bottle of Grand Marnier
into her cereal bowl. “There,” she said.
“You won.”

—from Did You Know?
2018 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Elizabeth S. Wolf: “I write because telling stories is how we make sense of our world, how we connect with our world, how we heal, and how we celebrate. I write to find the sliver of truth within the plethora of information; mining my monkey mind for a trace of grace.”

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June 11, 2019

“There Used to Be Rules” by Elizabeth S. WolfPosted by

Elizabeth S. Wolf

THERE USED TO BE RULES

My mother told me once, when I was in my 30s,
she couldn’t imagine how hard it must be to
have choices. In her day good girls were virgins at their
weddings, and that was that. And then the ’60s
happened, and free love, and then in the ’70s,
abortion was legal. Without the pregnancy card,
the whole game was changed.

My mother had rules for everything. Always
side with your husband. Be courteous
to the help. Tip the mailman and the paperboy
at Christmas. Towels are folded in thirds.
She knew what to wear and when; what to
serve for lunch or brunch or dinner; what to
wash in hot or cold. Her sheets were ironed.

I was visiting my mother in the mid-’80s when
she stopped outside the bedroom door.

“What do you think?” she asked.
“About what?” I wondered.
“Did you see?” she asked.
I looked around the room.
“Look at the bed,” she said.
So I did.
“Look harder,” she said.
So I did.
“I used the top sheet from one set
with a different fitted sheet,” she declared.
“I thought you’d get a kick out of that.”

I stared at the bed.

I stared at my mother.

She was positively delighted with her act of rebellion.

My mind reeled. How sheltered was she? What did she see
when she looked at me? Does she know how I lived as an
outcast, a foster child? Nights with no place to sleep, I crashed in
shelters, wards, hallways, under bushes, in
borrowed sleeping bags. I fucked friends
for a place to sleep.

But here I was, over 21, and she was wearing an ankle brace,
swaying on crutches to stay upright. The whole game
was changed.

I accepted her gift.

“Wow!” I answered. “I thought I woke up
extra spunky. Now I know why!”

She turned and crutched down the hall, giggling.

I stood staring at the space where my mother had been.

—from Did You Know?
2018 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

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Elizabeth S. Wolf: “I write because telling stories is how we make sense of our world, how we connect with our world, how we heal, and how we celebrate. I write to find the sliver of truth within the plethora of information; mining my monkey mind for a trace of grace.”

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