Portrait of My Mother Mowing the Lawn
by Kayla Goode
Georgia College & State University
Kayla Goode is a senior English major (Creative Writing Concentration) and a Sociology minor at Georgia College & State University. Their poem, “Old Man Hunch,” won the AWP Intro Journals Project competition at their college level. In addition, they won second place in the Margaret Harvin Wilson Writing Competition for their poem "Portrait of My Mother Mowing the Lawn." They are from McDonough, Georgia, and have wanted to be an author since they were six years old.
Portrait of My Mother Mowing the Lawn
I’m kneeling next to the bed where my mother
used to sleep—elbows sinking into the foam
mattress topper, forehead glued to where
she would lay her knees. I think
she’d be happy I’m praying, even if it’s not
to her god. She gave up her hair stylist
career to take care of me—left Dad to work
and turned to cutting the grass so that her kids
might play in it. She always was the silent type—
even in suffering.
Have you ever been afraid of your own mother?
Maybe not, but I bet if you saw someone
with an invisible line slicing their face
in half, you’d be scared too. I was 5
when I saw the anomaly for the first time—
her face flushed only halfway,
split directly down the center—the right:
red, sweaty, hot to the touch, and the left:
white, clammy, unmoving despite the exertion.
Her walking inside imprinted in my mind like
the Sunday school songs I strived to memorize.
Of course, I only saw a demon. My screaming
“devil!” probably wasn’t very nice, but when
the only monsters I’d been introduced to
were religious, it was hard to make
comparisons to something so grotesque:
the same grimy blue and white striped shirt,
the same grungy sweatpants that she cut
into shorts, the same hair tied up in
any way that a scrunchie could handle,
body sweaty from continuous cutting—
just trying to get some water.
I would measure blades of grass with my
tennis shoe—trying to anticipate when
it was time for the chore—and hid
where my bed met the wall.
I remember trying to pray,
As if God could change the way
doctors made an incision in her shoulder blade—
She had a tumor removed at 7. Primitive science
and doctors that should’ve been sued—but never
were—caused a nerve to be pinched, a face
to be mauled. For the rest of her life, only half
of her face would flush—the mistake only surfacing
when she was tired, only when she exerted herself.
See what I mean by suffering in silence?
It was Dad who told me how hard she used
to be bullied—hell, he was the one that
explained what had happened at all. She
would have died before showing me her pain.
By the time I was 15,
It became more severe—only after mowing
the lawn could anyone see the beauty
that was my mother’s face, split in half.
I would rub holistic numbing cream into her spine
when she could no longer get out of bed—much less
crank the lawnmower—holding back winces
so I might be spared some emotional pain.
Both of us were stubborn that way. I saw
it though. Through the cracks of my “shut”
eyes, feigning sleep on the couch, I saw
her tears accepting that Death would, in fact,
be paying a visit—her god would not
spare her at the head of the kitchen table
on a random Tuesday. She wiped her tears as Dad
came up behind her—hiding the understanding
like she does so well—and gazed directly at me,
my cover blown. I wonder if she could hear
the Christian guilt saying it was my fault,
that I could somehow have fixed this
with just a little more faith in that moment—
like the voices could possibly go away.
Have you ever lost your mother?
Maybe not, but I bet if you saw someone die
while you held their hand, you’d be scared too.
The god she prayed to didn’t repair the damage—
He created it new, in me.
I no longer see her exhausted face—
I don’t see her at all. I lift my head
from the barren bedside—and realize
that’s the monster 5-year-old me
was truly afraid of.
Interview with the Author
What pieces inspired you to start writing poetry?
Richard Siken's collection Crush transformed how I viewed poetry as a genre, and I'm constantly thinking about Sharen Olds' collection The Father, Obit by Victoria Chang, and Mother: A Cradle to Hold Me by Maya Angelou. But before all of that, before I knew I could go to school for creative writing, middle school Kayla was obsessed with Amanda Lovelace's work.
What theme do you find yourself constantly writing about in your works?
Even though I didn't intend this, I find I am constantly writing about how both I have been impacted by religion and how I shape religion in my pieces. It always seems to point back to my perception of what a god is, and how that defies organized religions. I also write a great deal about my interactions with others--especially my family. Who am I but a collective perception of everyone around me?
What do you think are important elements in thought provoking poems?
I had to learn quickly that using "poetic" language wouldn't get me very far. I had to speak for myself. I think the most important element is making the poem sound like your voice--whatever that may be. Allow the reader to know who you are not just by content, but through how you articulate things.
What role do you think poetry has on our society today?
I believe poetry has the ability to heal the soul. It's certainly healed mine in many ways. Especially with today's society, with just coming out of and trying to recover from a global pandemic, we need healing now more than ever. There will always be hardship, and poetry will always be there to help those who might listen.