Tag: by Erin

poetry

on our way

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on our way

the corrugated metal door
briskly unrolls down to the ground
I slide the latch right
shoot the lock through the hole
and our life is stored away

we hit the road
dust in the drawers be damned
all library books accounted for except
This Is a Poem that Heals Fish –
gone the way of desperate goldfish no doubt

there’s a flurry of wet spring snow at the divide
and This American Life on the speakers
Cedar cheerfully puzzles out a dot-to-dot eel
trepidation turned to glee (at this moment)

up the rough driveway
past patchy pillows of snow
until the boys spill out
before I can set the brake

soon Cedar’s stuffy has a nest
Owen’s found a pair of pine grosbeaks
Alex is learning guitar
and I’ve found a dozen books
I left behind already here

there’s a glow on Homestake Peak
and Alex recalls we’ve already
seen this place from there
yes. I sail through the blue-white air
to the summit at the memory
one more connection
I hadn’t accounted for

poetry

words before taking the toaster out of the cupboard

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in preparation for photos by our property management agency

words before taking the toaster out of the cupboard

all the messy things hidden away
here’s our magazine-spread life
without the dying basil that lets me hold onto summer
or the cloud covered with tiny handprints
that’s kept watch over his bed
since he was 2

it’s much less the physical labor
of finding a place for everything
it’s much more the emotional drain
of facing who we no longer are
what no longer serves
what we’re prepared to let go

Cedar looks at me sheepishly
an all-caps turquoise highlightered
scrap of note in his hands –
Is this your handwriting?
I LOVE YOU CEDAR
a quick line dashed off
before he knew lowercase
neither one of us has any memory of the occasion
this slip of paper’s the only evidence it existed
I’m sorry – would you be sad if I recycled it?

He’s doing what I asked
what we all need to do
letting go
clearing space
losing the weight of things

I know he doesn’t need proof of receipt
of early-day love
and I resolve not to be sad
as it’s quickly subsumed
by old posters and
-please, God, Pokemon? –
(nope, he’s holding on to those for now)
I shouldn’t need that scrap’s tactile assurance either
we’re leaving them so much more
than we ever had anyway,
growing up in the days of film
and sporadic snapshots

in the quiet kitchen
after the Marie Kondo-ing’s sting has lessened
all is calm and (more-or-less) sterile
ready for new souls
to possess this place