Fish Fry Daughter Returns & Other Poems

Sara Ries

Fish Fry Daughter Returns 

Maybe you’ve heard this story:

I was born on a Fish Fry Friday 

in November’s icy grip.

When the call came, my father stayed 

at the Holiday Inn kitchen 

to fry fish for a party of seventeen.

He made it for my arrival 

with seconds to spare.

When all the platters were packed with fish

coleslaw, mac salad, tartar and lemon,

my father threw off his apron,

hopped in his piece of junk Chevy Vega.

That was the last time it started, 

its next stop: bones in the junkyard.

I’m sure he noted the moon,

how it must have hung heavy in the sky. 

He’d curse the lazy drivers 

all the way to Mercy Hospital,

where he’d say thank you at least twice  

to the nurse who directed him to the room, 

told him he’d better get there right away. 

Maybe you’ve heard the poem that ends 

with my hope that when my father first held me

it was with haddock-scented hands,

apron over his black pants still sprinkled with flour

forehead oily from standing over the deep fryer

telling the fish to hurry, hurry—

here’s another ending.

I arrived with the umbilical cord wrapped 

around my neck, my first necklace:

miracle baby, the doctor said.

I was born from the pull of my mother’s longing,

the stretch of time where my mother laid in a hospital bed, 

gown sticking to her skin, her hair a tangle of golden leaves,

nurses asking Where’s your husband?

When my father finally got there

my mother said What took so long?

not to him, black hat coated with grease, 

but to me.   

Postcard from Scott Spencer

Dorothy, the mail lady, delivers 

the postcard as I decorate  

for Christmas. She says No bills today, 

tracks snow across the long black doormat. 

Just this morning I asked the other waitress 

if she’d seen Scott. She said Who? and I replied 

The trucker, camps out at counter 9, 

brings us the jumbo light up pens—

she slid a tip in her apron, 

shook her head.  

I stick Santa to the window 

and think of Scott, alone in his semi. 

I imagine headlights: icy rivers down dark roads. 

The highway bare and breathless. 

Silent Night on the radio,

Scott switching the station.

The postcard has palm trees 

with bubble letters that say Florida, 

and the flamingoes all wear sunglasses. 

His words are like boot prints

across the postcard’s white sand: 

Dear Sara,  

I never know where I’ll be from day to day. 

Last New Year’s they sent me to Long Beach 

and I watched fireworks from a bridge. 

All my life, firework shows have been kids 

with sparklers. But these fireworks, honest to God, 

shook me. Maybe I’ll get lucky again this year.

Happy Holidays, Scott.

I pour everyone more coffee.

This I’m sure of: today and for countless tomorrows, 

I’ll trudge these stories through snow

until it’s gone. 

My Mother’s Jet Plane

The jukebox slots are taped at our diner 

so that people don’t lose their quarters, 

but I still hear Mom’s song as she drags herself 

to the same old coffee pour—May I Take Your Order

dance. At each booth, Mom shines the records’ steel caskets.

The lights are off in her face. 

Her hair is clipped wings. 

Before our jukeboxes died:

Mom punches E7: Leaving on a Jet Plane 

over and over when she’s sad.  

Customers slurp and chew, bob their heads 

tap mud off their boots   I’m leavin’ 

on a jet plane    I don’t know when 

I’ll be back again. Mom scrubs the blinds 

and watches cars. She assumes they wheel happy people 

to better places than this diner, these rusted red bones.

She scrubs until someone says Joan, can I get—

People need so many things just to eat. 

When I lived at home: 

Sometimes, from beneath me, I hear sobs. 

Mom’s in the basement again

sitting on a dusty exercise bike. 

I ask What’s wrong? She says 

I can’t do the diner when I’m down

but your father needs me. I want to tell her 

now is only one of your dances. 

You will be manic soon. 

Customers will say Okay Joan, twist my arm 

and you’ll overflow their mugs 

and draw whipped cream smiley faces on pies 

that are just to die for. 

And we will wait, Mom, 

for clouds to ground your radiant jet

for your Leaving song to skip, for you  

to come home. 

Bridges

The contractions 

had me writhing 

on the ground

making me 

a gateway 

to the world. 

Palms on the floor

I cried to the nurse:

I don’t know what to do.

She straightened 

my slipper sock and said

That’s what labor is like. 

On the monitor we saw 

the contractions had gone from hills 

to mountains.

Breathe through it 

they say

but you wouldn’t try to go sailing 

mid hurricane.

Before the contractions 

were too steep to climb 

I was dancing through them, 

in my olive green hospital gown 

joking about my new vintage dress 

belly full from Thai.

The nurse said,

Normally it’s jello or popsicles, 

that’s it.

I was dancing 

any which way I felt

my hair dashing this way 

then that

to the song I put on repeat

“Bridges” 

as I belted out the refrain

I bet you wished you never burned that bridge oh no

‘Cause now you’d like to cross it.

Later lying on the crooked bed

the pain clawing its way through me

it was clear 

Bodies are bridges, 

and there’s no other way  

of crossing.