Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit by Elaine Sorrentino
By Editor Sharon Waller Knutson
I’m a sucker for stellar storytelling and catchy titles so Elaine Sorrentino
had me hooked from the tile, Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit and I couldn’t put
It down until I read the last page. It was like reading a mini novel with sympathetic
characters and a believable plot. I’ll let her blurb writers tell you more and the poems speak for themselves.
Praise from Storyteller Wilda Morris, author of Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick and At Goat Island and Other Poems
Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit is a fascinating portrait of life in the U.S. post–World War II: childhood traumas; the exigencies of family life, including birth, divorce, mothering, elder care and death; health issues including COVID and—especially—breast cancer; and even rape. For each of these, there are, as the first poem says, “befores and afters” because they alter the life of the narrator.
These poems are livened and deepened by the presence of details, also characteristic of the era in which the poems take place: Scrabble and Candy Land, Land O’ Lakes butter and Ruffles potato chips, the Boston Red Sox, and a Singer sewing machine, to name a few. There is also the iconic road trip (but with a difference). And of course, that brown sweatsuit.
While we are relishing personal and family stories, Sorrentino occasionally surprises us with a poem on a contemporary social issue—which probably should not be a surprise, since we learn early that her family origin story includes the Great Acadian Deportation. There is also an abundance of humor, which even shows up in some of Sorrentino’s haiku.
Readers of a certain age will revel in the memories the book elicits, while young readers may gain a better understanding of the author’s generation. Mine this collection for the gold coins that await you.
More praise by Plymouth, MA Poet Laureate Miriam O’Neal
Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit by Elaine Sorrentino offers readers a first collection of poems full of candid self-observation, tenderness for a world almost lost, and good humor. In poems like her hilarious post-Covid elegy, “A Moment of Silence for the Salad Bar”, or through the closing line of her title poem, in which the speaker announces “I didn’t come to watch,” Sorrentino invites readers to participate in love in its many forms and walk life’s path with joy, even when it is deeply shadowed. A 2X cancer survivor, she reminds us to celebrate what we’re given.
I agree with both blurb writers and selected to showcase my favorite poems:
Before and After
My life is measured in befores and afters.
Before slimming down
I was a kind, jocular, footloose teen
After, I was self-aware, guarded, judgmental.
Before marrying the wrong man
I romanticized married life
After, I embraced solitude.
Before children
New Year’s Eve was about partying
After, New Year’s Eve was about staying safe.
Before divorce
the ocean washed my home away
After, home was anywhere my children were.
Before my dad died
life was carefree and celebrated
After, the plane hit the building.
Before my forever man
perfect marriage was a fairytale
After, I was loved unconditionally.
Before cancer
I was undone by mean emails
After, I pressed delete.
Teacups
My six-year-old face appears disfigured
squished against the glass door, anticipating
my uncle’s long dark green car
screeching into our driveway,
delivering my daring, dark-haired cousin,
the one who livens up Christmas dinner
with rock-n-roll drumming
while her parents eye roll;
I continue my vigil
tapping on the glass
with my new Penny Brite doll,
decked in her red and white dress,
bow atop her head
prepared for introductions
until my mother spies me,
and in her gentle way
delivers the crushing news,
Sweetie, she’s not coming this year
the same heavy sadness
that moved into our house
when Grandma died
amplified after siblings’
disbelief of nothing to divide
but teacups and photographs.
Just make up with him,
my teary scream,
If it were only that easy,
her weighty sigh.
Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit
The suit.
Chocolate-colored,
more milk than dark
with a light aqua line racing up the leg,
my little pop of femininity
in otherwise masculine attire
for an activity designed to make one feel
vibrant and sexy
after nine months of treatment.
They said wear comfy clothing.
The instructor.
Dark-haired, exotic, energetic,
smiles as she greets the class
while donning her multicolored hip scarf,
starts shimmying her torso,
her percussive movements rewarded
with a jingling at every thrust,
ends with tiny hip vibrations,
then coaxes her wide-eyed forty-somethings,
Okay ladies, now you try.
We configure ourselves in a line-dancing
pattern and mimic her gyrations,
uncertain how to make our hips snap;
ridiculous and clumsy as she urges,
Let me show you again.
The rebellion.
The women stand, unsmiling, arms crossed
resembling a row of angry Mr. Cleans
but with hair,
they refuse to try it again,
insisting they’d rather watch her dance−
all except for me, the brown-suited belly dancer
who’d already spent too much time on the sidelines.
I’ll give it a go.
The solo.
As I shove my stiff arms to the side,
like a department store mannequin,
and move my hips
I hear laughter behind me,
very satisfying, a preferable alternative
to surgery, infusions and radiation,
and I’m happy to provide the amusement
I didn’t come to watch.
Uninvited
Cancer comes knocking
once every thirteen years,
and I say no, thank you,
but it heaves itself
into my body anyway
refusing to leave
until I escort it to the exit,
thrust it into the dark,
and nail that door shut.
Don’t come scratching again.
Grocery Shopping with Mom
At eighty-four,
she delights at the candy aisle,
eyes aglow
at the colorful cellophane packages.
This is what my cleaning lady likes best.
Thoughtful in the choosing,
she carefully plucks one
package of hard candy
and one package of soft,
depending upon who
might visit that week,
and drops them into her cart
with other items she’ll donate
to the food pantry.
Afterlife
They say I’ll boast
a full head of hair,
my once long, dark
cascade, pulled back,
swept up, braided
like a fishtail,
wrapped at my crown,
or hanging loose
for my lover
to savor in his kiss.
