May 27th, 2014
And when I closed my eyes one of the things I saw was you smiling into a sun
that would never cease. Hello. We have never met and yet you have taken my
hand and walked me through both fields and concrete paths. Your name was
vesper, at least one of them was, and when I heard your voice I heard the call
embedded within. Oh lady, how lovely and pure your white hands were. How
hard also, and how strong, your same white hands were. Hello, we have not
met, but if we did, I imagine I would have ducked from your constant blue
gaze, and you, undeterred, would have steadily looked until I could no longer
avert. These are just words, and none of them very good. Your daughter was
beautiful and gracious, and your son, still a boy, hunched his shoulders and
smiled. Both children smiled into the eyes of those who sought them out and
they seemed to know that they must be strong for all the wild people who had
loved their mother and drawn near to her fire. Your husband was tall and his
eyes were crinkled in the corners like tissue paper. Ingrid, I would have, I do! loved you.
May 25th, 2014
The fabric frays at its thread-level from overuse and light,
gathering mass, almost experienced in the material, as the
material, wears through. Through this we find a waking, a
lucid mind. All the pebbles fathered by the stones and rocks
of the center of the world, they gather at these shores. This is
not the end. We are just growing through layer by layer by layer
and many people are left to be born and live these ideas into
their bones. We are the first ones; we will bring into this fight
new weapons and wise children who will see a wave for everything
it is. Break bread with me and let us laugh like a we are children
seeing rain for the first time. When you are tired, find the swell
of my breast to rest against. I have carved a place for your hand
in mine. My eyes are sharpened to your sight. I can almost see
the curve of your smile. It is not unlike my own when I think of you.
May 23rd, 2014
We are athletes of words I say to them.
They don't buy it. I have to pee she says,
I'm going to write about that. Some things
are about the act of doing them, not your
enjoyment, I want to tell them. Some time,
not very close to this time, you will be in the
midst of doing something that you hate, or at
least don't like, and you will feel suddenly the
burst of joy that comes only from endurance.
There is nothing like sweat for cleaning your
conscience, and nothing like breaking muscle
to feel yourself, the very core of yourself,
as you are unadulterated. They don't know
many of the words I say, but, I think, they feel them.
May 22nd, 2014
My stomach cried all day, as it had every other day this week and I
wondered if maybe a parasite had moved in and was expanding and
pushing out the gut. It also felt as if a large hand of steal was inside
twisting my intestines around its thick fingers, as if they were curls.
I don't want to be caressed in this manner, please, hand of steal,
remove your touch from my lower abdomen. Or, if you must stay,
stop forcing food up through my esophagus and into the toilet; I do
not want my teeth to decay before my skin has fallen from my bones.
This is a small thing to ask, I think, of an uninvited hand. Unless,
of course, I've got it all wrong and it the absence of thing, not the thing
itself, that hurts. I imagine a black hole pulsing with black light.
Through it, if you squint your eyes, you can see another universe all
together. But I cannot give myself over to the mysticism of pain today,
for I have worldly things to do. So, please pain, flee.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
May 21st, 2014
I got really good, so they gave me mausoleums he says, stirring his shepherd's pie
from the staff lunch room. And now we are here, both teaching, I a former waitress
and he a former graveyard salesman. When we pull into the liquor store parking lot,
Joe and I, the space is tight. When we leave, someone has decided to park right
behind us, limiting our space even more. I start to inch out and a woman with long
white hair appears out of no where to coach me. She also tells the parked car to move
and it does. I wave a thanks and she waves it away. Her shirt says "I am crazy" or
something to that effect. We see her later at a gas station down the street. In the park
we are in the house that belongs to lucas and genna and I and a mom and a small boy
enter. She lifts him up and shows him where his name has been carved into the bark.
We were here, your father and I and you. You were four months. The boy laughs in
delight and then demands to be put down. He stumbles almost onto our blanket and says
oh! you're having a picnic! and then he is gone. My dart game was impeccable tonight,
though we still didn't win. When I kissed him it was with a quiet desire that took its time.
I got really good, so they gave me mausoleums he says, stirring his shepherd's pie
from the staff lunch room. And now we are here, both teaching, I a former waitress
and he a former graveyard salesman. When we pull into the liquor store parking lot,
Joe and I, the space is tight. When we leave, someone has decided to park right
behind us, limiting our space even more. I start to inch out and a woman with long
white hair appears out of no where to coach me. She also tells the parked car to move
and it does. I wave a thanks and she waves it away. Her shirt says "I am crazy" or
something to that effect. We see her later at a gas station down the street. In the park
we are in the house that belongs to lucas and genna and I and a mom and a small boy
enter. She lifts him up and shows him where his name has been carved into the bark.
We were here, your father and I and you. You were four months. The boy laughs in
delight and then demands to be put down. He stumbles almost onto our blanket and says
oh! you're having a picnic! and then he is gone. My dart game was impeccable tonight,
though we still didn't win. When I kissed him it was with a quiet desire that took its time.
May 20th, 2014
there are too many things to say to really begin
when i held that tree i felt a pulse i didn't really
believe i would ever again feel. it seemed to manifest
arms and lifted them to touch my back. the lilacs
were almost in bloom and i reached up to take a
bunch. my stomach continues to ache and my throat
is dry and my head pounds. You'll miss tomorrow
miss they said. no, I can't. tomorrow is a quiz and
what am I sick with? I think it is only spring fever
and i think the cure is in daily hikes and keeping to my
schedule. Has it always been this way in the spring?
Yes. yes it has. since the first swallow opened its mouth
to sing and the first lover watched the pulse
of the soft bird neck as he lowered himself to her lips.
May 19th, 2014
Do you remember the bleeding hearts? How pink they were, how very thoroughly and completely the color with no apologies, and how they clashed with the Japanese maple, and how they were cheerful in spite of the bleeding? I ran only in intervals tonight because that is where my
body is right now, but as I ran, I felt my muscles lengthen and break and grow and I avoided the roots in the path, and even danced, twirling and throwing my arms up when I was sure no one else was there. I reached the top and didn't pause, I had not time to waste, and ran back down the
path. My thoughts were not yet untangled and this was okay because I still had the silence and space of the woods in which to be tangled and un. I stopped at the rock with words on it I couldn't read and all the thinking I had done caught in my throat and came out like sob. My eyes blurred
and a tree before me called to me. I ran to it and fell against its solid bark and it said, that's fine girl, cry. There is a lot to cry about, and the earth is hurting as much as you are. I am not an animist but I felt this tree's soul, and I swear we both shook a bit when I broke apart from its arms. I didn't know yet, but tomorrow I would come back and wrap my arms around every tree until I found this one again.
there are too many things to say to really begin
when i held that tree i felt a pulse i didn't really
believe i would ever again feel. it seemed to manifest
arms and lifted them to touch my back. the lilacs
were almost in bloom and i reached up to take a
bunch. my stomach continues to ache and my throat
is dry and my head pounds. You'll miss tomorrow
miss they said. no, I can't. tomorrow is a quiz and
what am I sick with? I think it is only spring fever
and i think the cure is in daily hikes and keeping to my
schedule. Has it always been this way in the spring?
Yes. yes it has. since the first swallow opened its mouth
to sing and the first lover watched the pulse
of the soft bird neck as he lowered himself to her lips.
May 19th, 2014
Do you remember the bleeding hearts? How pink they were, how very thoroughly and completely the color with no apologies, and how they clashed with the Japanese maple, and how they were cheerful in spite of the bleeding? I ran only in intervals tonight because that is where my
body is right now, but as I ran, I felt my muscles lengthen and break and grow and I avoided the roots in the path, and even danced, twirling and throwing my arms up when I was sure no one else was there. I reached the top and didn't pause, I had not time to waste, and ran back down the
path. My thoughts were not yet untangled and this was okay because I still had the silence and space of the woods in which to be tangled and un. I stopped at the rock with words on it I couldn't read and all the thinking I had done caught in my throat and came out like sob. My eyes blurred
and a tree before me called to me. I ran to it and fell against its solid bark and it said, that's fine girl, cry. There is a lot to cry about, and the earth is hurting as much as you are. I am not an animist but I felt this tree's soul, and I swear we both shook a bit when I broke apart from its arms. I didn't know yet, but tomorrow I would come back and wrap my arms around every tree until I found this one again.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
May 14th, 2014
You never write poems about me. She said. I don't like essays. Think of it as a paper then. She squints her eyes and barely looks at me, letting me know she does not think I am funny. What is funny says Monica from the other part of the room after I tell her I wrote about her in the poem from yesterday is that he did drive by in the afternoon and I didn't have the baby wrapped up, so he saw his foot. The worst part of the dream two nights ago was that I didn't see his face
because he had none. He was just a presence and a voice telling me over and over again that no, no. He could not forgive me. But you are hurting everyone I said and he said he didn't care. I woke feeling like something had burrowed into me in the dark and then exited, leaving a yawning space that wanted to be filled. But, what I woke to in the real world was the certainty of a birds calling out the rising sun and the fact that there was nothing to be forgiven for. I dressed by the window, repeating these truths, rehearsing them and feeling the way they felt with my tongue, when suddenly I saw on the window what must have been there all along, since I've moved in, a heart drawn in the dust by someone's finger that said "K + G". So, so, there is love. When I tell my students this, they stare and say finally so you don't clean your windows. No. I don't. And the light still comes in. No matter what blocks it, it still finds an avenue.
You never write poems about me. She said. I don't like essays. Think of it as a paper then. She squints her eyes and barely looks at me, letting me know she does not think I am funny. What is funny says Monica from the other part of the room after I tell her I wrote about her in the poem from yesterday is that he did drive by in the afternoon and I didn't have the baby wrapped up, so he saw his foot. The worst part of the dream two nights ago was that I didn't see his face
because he had none. He was just a presence and a voice telling me over and over again that no, no. He could not forgive me. But you are hurting everyone I said and he said he didn't care. I woke feeling like something had burrowed into me in the dark and then exited, leaving a yawning space that wanted to be filled. But, what I woke to in the real world was the certainty of a birds calling out the rising sun and the fact that there was nothing to be forgiven for. I dressed by the window, repeating these truths, rehearsing them and feeling the way they felt with my tongue, when suddenly I saw on the window what must have been there all along, since I've moved in, a heart drawn in the dust by someone's finger that said "K + G". So, so, there is love. When I tell my students this, they stare and say finally so you don't clean your windows. No. I don't. And the light still comes in. No matter what blocks it, it still finds an avenue.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
May 13th, 2014
I wrap the baby up tight when I go outside so that his father cannot see him when
he drives by slow.All he sees is a blue blanket. When you are killing an animal,
if you show emotion the animal will hold on to life for longer. It's true. It feels
your desire for its life, and it fights. In Puerto Rico you'd get smacked for that.
These are among the things I learn when I come here to teach. I let Caitlin read
the poem from yesterday about our night, and then I let Eaton read it too. His
face follows every line and embodies its desired emotion. Somehow, this
is exactly what should have happened and what had been ordained from the
beginning of time. We have very little to do with the arrangements. Every dress fits
incorrectly, although it is true that my waist is smaller than before. I didn't
even want to find his eyes. I just wanted to keep mine down and continue
walking slowly towards absolution. That's not how it works though. His smile
and the warmth I feel within it has complicated things. I AM feeling these two
things at once. That's what makes it complex Brett says, giving voice to my thoughts.
I wrap the baby up tight when I go outside so that his father cannot see him when
he drives by slow.All he sees is a blue blanket. When you are killing an animal,
if you show emotion the animal will hold on to life for longer. It's true. It feels
your desire for its life, and it fights. In Puerto Rico you'd get smacked for that.
These are among the things I learn when I come here to teach. I let Caitlin read
the poem from yesterday about our night, and then I let Eaton read it too. His
face follows every line and embodies its desired emotion. Somehow, this
is exactly what should have happened and what had been ordained from the
beginning of time. We have very little to do with the arrangements. Every dress fits
incorrectly, although it is true that my waist is smaller than before. I didn't
even want to find his eyes. I just wanted to keep mine down and continue
walking slowly towards absolution. That's not how it works though. His smile
and the warmth I feel within it has complicated things. I AM feeling these two
things at once. That's what makes it complex Brett says, giving voice to my thoughts.
Monday, May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014
When she drove by, Brett perked up like a cat at the window smelling summer for the
first time. My eyes were itchy from pollen and my mouth was dry and hungry for
something more than the food I ate. Sharon drove by after SHE did, and we yelled her
name. Caitlin drove by after that and we called to her as well. Both came and joined
us on the patio. The sun was warm and we were wrapped together in its remaining light.
Later Caitlin and I prayed theatrically over our phones because we so wanted the boys
we liked to text us back. They both did, and Caitlin knew suddenly the power of prayer
in a way that rivaled old testament stories. Joe called and his voice was lost and unsure, somewhere in the back of his throat, and we rushed to meet him in the dark on the street
to hear why he sounded that way. We both hugged him and listened until his smile became
more sure. We walked him home and said goodbye by the bushes. We prayed once more,
for everyone and everything, and the simplicity of it sparkled. On the way home the moon
got caught in branches in the most delightful way and I had to stop and release it at least
three times. This is just where I am right now, in some lovely village at the palm of two
very high ridges. and this is where I will stay.
May 7th, 2014
how we tell our lives through stories over and over,
how we tell our stories through shades that only we
can see. I have often wondered what kind of stories
are told about me, but then I remember Sapir and
Worf and how they believed that if one did not have a
word for blue in ones language he could not see the color
blue, at least not as one, who had the word, could. So,
then, if love meant "control and possession" to one
and "sacrifice and identity" to another, how could the
stories possibly ever line up? I have painted my story in
shadows on the sea, and still my sorrow has followed
me. For a year I braided it into all the songs I knew, and
after that I told it through jokes that no one found funny.
We are all impressionists. Stand back, very far back, to understand.
May 6th, 2014
My energy,
which I
had so
carefully
collected
over the
last few
weeks, all
leaked slowly
out of me
today,
second
by
second.
Monday, May 5, 2014
May 5th, 2014
And a cry I was not sure anybody heard, not the whole of it, not the
many worlds that made their existence within it, not the reach of its
vastness and excruciating poignance, escaped in a trickle from my lips
when through my open bedroom door I said to Brett, well what then?
What do I do? Do I settle? And what I was really saying is will there
ever be any release from the prison of this cry that no one can hear and
will I ever be loved and am I even worth such a thought, and Brett poised
and posed at the bottom of the stairs, coffee cup in hand, looked up steadily
and said, as if he heard the questions I was not asking I think you're lovely.
Stick with me. I will never tell you to settle. And, as if a stone had been
thrown at a flock of seagulls, the fear and pain, the very cry itself, scattered
and rose to the textured ceiling and the day, like water, settled into itself in
a soothing lapping that belongs only to the still waters we dream of when
we dream of peace.
And a cry I was not sure anybody heard, not the whole of it, not the
many worlds that made their existence within it, not the reach of its
vastness and excruciating poignance, escaped in a trickle from my lips
when through my open bedroom door I said to Brett, well what then?
What do I do? Do I settle? And what I was really saying is will there
ever be any release from the prison of this cry that no one can hear and
will I ever be loved and am I even worth such a thought, and Brett poised
and posed at the bottom of the stairs, coffee cup in hand, looked up steadily
and said, as if he heard the questions I was not asking I think you're lovely.
Stick with me. I will never tell you to settle. And, as if a stone had been
thrown at a flock of seagulls, the fear and pain, the very cry itself, scattered
and rose to the textured ceiling and the day, like water, settled into itself in
a soothing lapping that belongs only to the still waters we dream of when
we dream of peace.
May 4th, 2014
All this happened in the time when the earth was undeniably warming and huge prehistoric
fish washed up on the shore of connecticut. All this happened after your father had gone
off somewhere you couldn't follow, twice; once to a land he described as the greenest in
all the world and then to somewhere you can't even reach by phone. There were huge plants
in the living room, which was more of a grotto, or a terrarium, and the skylight hung over us
hugely but lightly. He wasn't surprised I was homeschooled, it made sense you see, after all
the creativity he had observed in me he said as he moved in a gentle drunken way on the
cushion, breathing deep from his vaporizer. Joe had his hand tucked between my legs, between
the two knees really, as I had them crossed, and the touch was nice, like warm bathwater, and
just as clean and familiar. On the ride home Josh told stories of high school and I laughed
harder than I had in a long time, really laughed with my whole face, until my gut hurt. All this happened on a Saturday night when any one of us could have been somewhere else, but we
gathered together and went there, and while Tom taught Josh how to play piano, I realized
what I wanted out of life, and how close this was to it.
All this happened in the time when the earth was undeniably warming and huge prehistoric
fish washed up on the shore of connecticut. All this happened after your father had gone
off somewhere you couldn't follow, twice; once to a land he described as the greenest in
all the world and then to somewhere you can't even reach by phone. There were huge plants
in the living room, which was more of a grotto, or a terrarium, and the skylight hung over us
hugely but lightly. He wasn't surprised I was homeschooled, it made sense you see, after all
the creativity he had observed in me he said as he moved in a gentle drunken way on the
cushion, breathing deep from his vaporizer. Joe had his hand tucked between my legs, between
the two knees really, as I had them crossed, and the touch was nice, like warm bathwater, and
just as clean and familiar. On the ride home Josh told stories of high school and I laughed
harder than I had in a long time, really laughed with my whole face, until my gut hurt. All this happened on a Saturday night when any one of us could have been somewhere else, but we
gathered together and went there, and while Tom taught Josh how to play piano, I realized
what I wanted out of life, and how close this was to it.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
May 3rd, 2014
We drove down empty streets on a gray February day somewhere in Rhode Island seven years ago. I had my lap top and we kept it open as the car moved slowly by houses until we found unsecured internet. Then we stopped and idled and looked up real estate. Your dreams then were not my own, but I tried very hard to be with you there, although, the closest I believe I ever got was to wait just outside the austere gates of your designs for you to notice the garden I was planting around the periphery. You were always a cross stitch in black thread of some puritanical axiom, and I was the flowers embroidered around the solid lettering to bring in what beauty was allowed. Not very much was, and since you it has taken me three years and many many mistakes to remember what beauty I was born with. Now I understand the looks of other men when I expressed my unending devotion, my hands dripping with dirt from the garden I planted for us, my hair tangled with flowers I so wished you would notice. Later that day it snowed and the car was stuck on a hill. The slicked road would not give us traction and finally I steered and you got out and pushed and, then, then, we were together. If only you would have joined me outside of that city of your dreams and come, even just for an afternoon, to the garden. We would have together known the wet warm of dirt and all the possibility in its depths.
We drove down empty streets on a gray February day somewhere in Rhode Island seven years ago. I had my lap top and we kept it open as the car moved slowly by houses until we found unsecured internet. Then we stopped and idled and looked up real estate. Your dreams then were not my own, but I tried very hard to be with you there, although, the closest I believe I ever got was to wait just outside the austere gates of your designs for you to notice the garden I was planting around the periphery. You were always a cross stitch in black thread of some puritanical axiom, and I was the flowers embroidered around the solid lettering to bring in what beauty was allowed. Not very much was, and since you it has taken me three years and many many mistakes to remember what beauty I was born with. Now I understand the looks of other men when I expressed my unending devotion, my hands dripping with dirt from the garden I planted for us, my hair tangled with flowers I so wished you would notice. Later that day it snowed and the car was stuck on a hill. The slicked road would not give us traction and finally I steered and you got out and pushed and, then, then, we were together. If only you would have joined me outside of that city of your dreams and come, even just for an afternoon, to the garden. We would have together known the wet warm of dirt and all the possibility in its depths.
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