Señora X No More
Straight as a nun I sit.
My fingers foolish before paper and pen
hide in my palms. I hear the slow, accented echo
How are yu? I ahm fine. How are yu?
of the other women who clutch notebooks
and blush at their stiff lips resisting
sounds that float gracefully as
bubbles from their children's mouths.
My teacher bends over me, gently squeezes
my shoulders, the squeeze I give my sons,
hands louder than words.
She slides her arms around me:
a warm shawl, lifts my left arm
onto the cold, lined paper.
"Señora, don't let it slip away," she says
and opens the ugly, soap-wrinkled fingers
of my right hand with a pen like I pry open
the lips of a stubborn grandchild.
My hand cramps around the thin hardness.
"Let it breathe," says this woman who knows
my hand and tongue knot, but she guides
and I dig the tip of my pen into that white.
I carve my crooked name, and again at night
until my hand and arm are sore,
I carve my crooked name,
my name.
My fingers foolish before paper and pen
hide in my palms. I hear the slow, accented echo
How are yu? I ahm fine. How are yu?
of the other women who clutch notebooks
and blush at their stiff lips resisting
sounds that float gracefully as
bubbles from their children's mouths.
My teacher bends over me, gently squeezes
my shoulders, the squeeze I give my sons,
hands louder than words.
She slides her arms around me:
a warm shawl, lifts my left arm
onto the cold, lined paper.
"Señora, don't let it slip away," she says
and opens the ugly, soap-wrinkled fingers
of my right hand with a pen like I pry open
the lips of a stubborn grandchild.
My hand cramps around the thin hardness.
"Let it breathe," says this woman who knows
my hand and tongue knot, but she guides
and I dig the tip of my pen into that white.
I carve my crooked name, and again at night
until my hand and arm are sore,
I carve my crooked name,
my name.
©Pat Mora
Analysis: There are a lot of poetic and literary devices used in this poem, including similes ("straight as a nun", "gracefully as bubbles from their children's mouths"), personification (letting the hand "breathe"), enjambment, and a pun ("knot"). The speaker of this poem seems to be constantly comparing herself to those younger than her, as she feels almost ashamed to be taught English in a way that she would handle a child. She mentions her sons and grandchild, indicating that she is of an older age at the time of her education. The women in the room seem similarly ashamed as they "blush at their stiff lips resisting/sounds that float gracefully as/bubbles from their children's mouths," for they cannot speak English while their children, having grown up with the language, speak it with ease. Additionally, the instructor is said to "know [the speaker's] hand and tongue knot," meaning both that the teacher understands her struggles and that the teacher is also unfamiliar with the speaker's native Spanish background, which is not so easy for the speaker to simply let go of as the teacher instructs. Describing her name as "crooked" indicates a sense of insecurity and imperfection about her abilities.
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