If It We

by Lisa Zaran

A compelling collection of poetry relating to the experiences of a mother whose son is addicted to heroin.

104 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2012

About the author

Lisa Zaran is a poet and the author of six collections of poetry including "If It We", "The Blondes Lay Content" and "the sometimes girl". Zaran is founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices, an online journal featuring some of the best voices in America today. Zaran also is founder and editor of Little Lark Press, a small press publishing anthologies of poetry by poets from around the world. Little Lark Press's first release, The Whole Desolate Day, features poetry on addiction by authors across the globe. Zaran is the author of Dear Bob Dylan, a collection of letters. Zaran lives and writes in Arizona.

Reviews

[Grady · Rating 5 out of 5]

`Art for the sake of salvation.'
By Grady Harp
This review is from: If It We (Paperback)

How do parents, friends, codependents, family and society cope with addiction? Some collapse, some, ignore and shun, some turn a blind eye, and some weep the tears that at least indicate that some small part of an aching heart and mind so evidence of survival continues to shout `alive'.

Lisa Zaran is a mother whose son one day was an empowered, promising, healthy young 18 year old and the `next day' was a wasted, criminally minded addict whose only motivation was finding the next fix. What this book represents is a series of poems and beautifully rendered artistic photographs that set the mood for the anguish yet abiding love the author felt for her son as he sank in the dense mud of addiction. The title poem for this collection sets a tone:
IF IT WE
Memories. Inside the box
a gift is waiting. Outside
we stare, empty handed, songs
exploding against our skulls.

Heaven's groan terrifies us
in our sleep. The house of breath,
said the Lord, turning all serious.
Let not our labors be in vain.

Here comes the alarm clock.
Here comes your arm, heavy and warm,
across my back. Here comes
your morning kiss equipped with morning breath.

At dawn I see the world
with a compound eye. I do not know
who bruised the lawn, who kicked the sky
into muggy contemplation. I'm only human.

I remember things form a lower point.
A place of lanterns dimly lit.
Though bells keep ringing in my head.
And people seem like long farewells

blanching in the distance.

But in terse thoughts she defines process and effect as well as any poet. Preaching, no. Sharing hurt, yes as in the following tow brief poems:
AUDIENCE
First there is the nobility of right.
Wrong is just an afterthought,
a stone's throw from oblivion.

Tomorrow may come
as no surprise. Yesterday may flake
off its chapped skin.

Demise is akin to forgetfulness
As remembering is akin to pain.
My son is addicted to heroin.

SINCE
rehab, it's different now.
No random traffic
to wake me from
a terrible dream.
Just the sound
of scanty leaves
fluttering in between
the breeze
and maybe a bird cry
now and then
to steal me from my panic

PUNISHMENT
When using, you are not the same.
That sublimity of an altered state,
you are not the same.

Do not talk to me about faith or
the hierarchy of trust. Do not bring
the slow jibes of your bright desire
into my house of sorrow.

I'll lock all my windows.
I'll bust all the light bulbs.
I won't recognize your voice
calling mother through the door.

And these few poems are but a snap of the spectrum of the emotions and thoughts and response and the pain and the undying love that this mother feels for her son - her heroin addicted son. But these poems make no excuses, they face the realities of daylight so informed, and they ask us to whisper a supportive sense of understanding as Lisa Zaran makes anguish into art.

Grady Harp