Oh Sonia, by Sharon Roseman

Oh Sonia
 
If only I could reach 
into the glass museum case,
smooth the quilt you sewed 
for your baby boy, 
feel the weight 
of your walking poem outfits, 
see you appraise, measure, trace, chalk, 
shear, iron, and stitch, like my mother did 
when she made skirts that actually fit me, 
hemmed the bedspread 
that matched the curtains
where my hesitant girl-body lay 
and read and wondered next door 
to her sewing space in the laundry room 
where she talked to me 
while she cut fabrics on the deep freezer 
near the warm lamp light after a long day at her job.
If only I could do all that.
 
I see you in the televised interview, 
speaking French with familiar traces 
of my grandparents’ Ashkenazic accents. 
No longer Sara Elievna Stern of Gradizhsk, 
no longer Sonia Terk of St. Petersburg,
this Sonia Delaunay of Paris.
 
Oh Sonia, my art history lessons decades ago
were about Robert Delaunay and his wife Sonia, 
and hardly enough about Sonia.
Sonia of the paintings, murals, mesmeric bolts of fabric, 
clean-angled furniture, and striking stage sets.
Sonia of the Simultaneous Dresses.
 
Oh Sonia, I did not know about Sara. 
I had not anticipated this retrospective 
of your work bringing me back 
to my mother’s dresses
with their splotches of joy,
to how she stood, 
and how she stitched, a life.
 
Sharon Roseman
 
Sharon Roseman (she/her) writes poetry, non-fiction, and fiction from St. John's, Canada where is Professor of Anthropology at Memorial University. Recent examples of her poetry can be found in Poetica Magazine, SurVision, The Ekphrastic Review, and The Memory Palace anthology.
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