Tag: Black Hawk

poetry

this fairytale life

Posted on

this fairytale life

I’m waiting to find
what it will take from me
this thoughtless virus
this incomprehensibly fortunate life

no one in my bloodline got off easy
every one of them suffered
their own bit of soul-crushing loss

the stillborn babies
the blue eyes that went blind
the mother who starved herself
and the one who died a week after childbirth
the father who drank himself to death
or the one whose legs went blue at 40

there’s even the girl
who, walking across the room
on Christmas Day
while drinking from a glass,
tripped and sliced her throat open
(I could not concoct
this degree of Grimm fairy tale darkness –
my sister and I were told and retold
this tale, warned never to take a step
with a glass lifted to our lips)

when her distraught father went to fetch the priest
instead of consolation he found an open palm –
Father demanded payment first –
and my grandfather’s grandfather’s voice went cold
he paid upfront
and as soon as the Mass ended
he ordered the whole family out of the Church
his faith dead alongside his daughter

there are no happy-ever-afters in our family
and precious little happy at all

this is why I go around
forehead to earth
incredulously thanking
each leaf each breath
each lovely soul in my life
always wondering when
it will all come undone

poetry

mouthing the forest

Posted on

mouthing the forest

to feel at home
I put the forest on my tongue
little sweet safe bits
to bring the scent of sap and duff
right into my mouth

wintergreen leaves
sparked with living magic
cool, sharp, energizing

sassafras stems
the rich root beer taste of cozy mitten leaves
chewing the petiole flat
while the long blade hangs out my mouth
giving me the feel of a deer

Indian paintbrush corollas
drawing spring green from a fiery red throat
testing the base for the quench of nectar
in summer heat

wild strawberries
anywhere, anytime
little dabs of garnet lusciousness
never abundant enough to overdo it

honeysuckle (in town)
pulling the pink and yellow tube
from the green calyx
sucking sweetness through

raspberries
hands stained red
pulling off a few here and there along the trail
rolling the stuck seeds around my mouth later

chokecherry
best when they’re wizened
left hanging so long the acid’s been baked or frozen out
a dark purple deep old-time sugary taste

blueberries, crowberries, salmonberries, flower petals (some)

spruce sap
it sat bubbled on the bark
four small crystal balls
reflecting my own place in the world back to me
at a time when divination is a godsend
I gently pressed one, then brought my finger to tongue
and it exploded with spruce essence
opening my sinuses
and making me feel satiated
while also fueling a new hunger
giving a taste to something missing
or at least in too-short supply in my current day-to-day

it was like the day
my collarbones grew warm
or a kiss introduced me to the smooth inside of my lower lip
or my left foot first stood firm on the ground
unforgettable and exciting
leaving me wanting more
while also feeling amazed
at how sharp life can be

poetry

after reading the District’s reopening plan

Posted on

after reading the District’s reopening plan

tonight I am picturing
my sons
in half-empty rooms
of masked children
their shoes rooted to the floor
amidst evenly-spaced desks

how could they endure
not being able to move
or play
or eat?

tonight I am picturing
my sons
listless in our living room
realizing education
is such a small part
of school

how could I ask them to go
another year without friends
another year home with us
another year far from
what they know?

but I want to keep them safe –
how can I anticipate
what they’ll most loathe
about next year?

poetry

Geodes / Humans of New York

Posted on

Geodes / Humans of New York

there are worse things to learn
than how to see a dull grey rock
as a vessel for violet crystals

there’s a beauty to hoping
that a nondescript rough body
so much the same as everything else
could be struck in such a way
as to reveal a glittering gallery inside

we don’t know
what might have leached through
our neighbor’s heart

what sparkling prisms
they might be waiting
to open up and share

poetry

Mother’s Day Poems 2020

Posted on

sacrifices

the very hardest part
of this hard scary spring
is not hugging
my own mom

Amma in a time of Covid

from the smallest world
of anyone I know
she sends 50-year-old postcards
from all over the globe
elegant puzzles with intricate pieces
novels about whatever’s going on
(foxes, Incas, Aborigines)
she sends a tube of sock supplies
and the needles to make them
questions and answers
and a basket going over a balcony
to keep everyone safe
most of all
she sends her love

Molly

she keeps the vacuum calendar
and the trusty stopwatch
she buys masks
for the mailman
she funds the nanny
and the housekeeper
while they stay home
she reins in Gram
and a bouncy son
when you stop by
she can’t stop giving

Kira

in her outpost
far from the other mothers of her line
she waits for sun and sand and snowmelt
braiding a story
that will become a song

May

in my binder
of delicious delights
I spy her handwriting
over and over
she’s making life sweeter
one opened oven door
at a closed-up time

poetry

for Margaret

Posted on

for Margaret

she lives and speaks
deliberately
with intention
a stretching out of her heart
to everyone
she listens to the stars
and the lap of the lake
she makes a cup of tea
for death
and a nest for birth
she tucks each little brother
and sister in warm
before laying down her own bones
she brings all her attention
to each blessed day

poetry

Cedar at the sit spot

Posted on

Cedar at the sit spot

sometimes when I’m sitting quietly
waiting for nothing
he comes
it’s the sweetest sort of communion
Tous neyei3eibeihii*
he says to the tree that shelters us
and we sit together
contemplating the creek
the woods
the snow
and mostly the gift
of another soul
who knows how to be
silent still attentive and grateful
he magnifies my joy

* “Hello, teacher” in Arapaho/Hinóno’éí

poetry

forbidden embrace

Posted on

forbidden embrace

each time we approach
the time when approaching
in the flesh is allowed
the goalposts move
and I feel your utterly human
animal selves moving further from me

if this ever ends
we will be hungry for skin on skin
like newborn babies
rooting around to feel the ridges
in the palm of the person in the next pew
slapping the back of the annoying
salesman at the door
combing the postal clerk’s bangs with our fingers
while purchasing stamps
sitting close enough on the bleachers
to feel the stranger-neighbor’s quad clench
before he leaps to his feet to cheer the play

but mostly I will hold onto
my mother, mother-in-law, father-in-law
with careful desperate bear hugs
swaying with them like a child
needing to be soothed
(I am)
so relieved I can clutch them to me
at least once more before letting go

poetry

tragic

Posted on

This poem was written in response to this comic, which deeply saddened one of our sons. I actually reached out to the artist to see if she might have anything comforting to communicate to him, but I have not received a response. The article explains that she drew the comic to encourage drivers to slow down for ducklings. Our kids found it by Googling “duck comic.”

tragic

all the departing souls saying
I’m so sorry
all the dying pleading
Can you say goodbye to me?

our sweet son sees a comic
of a ghost duckling
taking leave of his mama
and knows the devastating truth of it –
they’ll never know each other again

we are not the faithful it is written type
no, we’re bound to hang on to breath
and the dear flawed souls around us
with our heels dug in
teeth gritted
not taking any chances on some future homecoming
or even any afterlife

I want to shake that artist
until her own teeth rattle
and demand
What were you thinking?
There’s enough real tragedy in sight
without making him mourn
your damned duck
or his mother.
Why make his world any more sad
than tomorrow demands?

poetry

our shared grief

Posted on

our shared grief

in this lonely time of loss
each of us locked away
in our own sorrow
the future a grey haze
uncertainty dusting everything
we do or say like fine ash
the fear of dying alone
(our death or a beloved’s)
with no hand to hold
no last pressure between worlds
the one consolation is
our shared grief –
that you know a bit
of what I must say no to
without me opening my lips
for maybe the only time
our hearts share this unsaid knowing
that we would each gladly
take this away from the other

I want to splash warm red
and the smell of cinnamon
into your scene
let you remember
how spontaneous laughter feels
light the way forward for you
at least a few steps