One Friday
a whole day gone and the best things I’ve done
are give away plastic eggs and Christmas coffee
listen to The Mighty Dnieper and Willie Clancy
wash dishes and reheat lasagna
walk my mom’s and sister’s dogs
and snuggle with my family while A Monster Calls
it’s enough
In Praise of Stiff Wind
walking around the reservoir
blasted by invigorating wind
all we can do is laugh
at the immense blessing
of being given to one another;
of knowing someone else
who sings this song
my son has no taste for paintball
My son sheds his year-round shorts and short-sleeved tee
for long pants and long sleeves,
what he’s been told to wear
to lessen the sting of inevitable impacts.
Hood up, he looks the stereotypical hoodlum,
even further from his usual self.
At the end of the party my teacher husband texts
we’re never hosting something like this.
I picture the boys covered in paint,
ask if his sneakers are ruined.
No, they’re fine
he writes
but it’s a bunch of kids
in full military tactical gear
shooting at each other.
too real
too raw
He comes home
all in one piece on the outside;
inside, rattled, by more than
the way the bullets grazed skulls,
more than the sinking feeling
of pulling a trigger for the very first time.
These boys already know too much real life –
all the losses that can’t be laughed at,
the way things get so serious so fast:
fire, flood, shooting, plague.
Good times are too hard to come by
to be squandered on
taking each other out.
firing up the activities
the first night back
and I’ve traded sleep for doing
two states and one photo today:
that’s how it goes
we come into service
and the calendar balloons with commitments –
easing back into pre-pandemic busyness
we’ve less taste for it now
like lobsters who got a reprieve
we know the difference between tepid and roiling
today we saw tracks in sand
and the rest was a blur
unbalanced on the equinox
the black campground studded by flames
like my inner landscape
raging from the unkindness one son inflicts on the other
and my inability to create peace
in our little truck
in our extended family
in our town
no it seems we all want to tear each other apart
enjoy that crestfallen look on the other’s face
when we betray them with disdain
just like me
unable to see the 21-month-old I made cry to sleep
his bucket never able to be filled since
the payoff of sleep so not worth the damage done
sleep I reject every night now anyway
I’ve no idea how to make it better
only know to limit the pain I myself inflict
unbalanced today
I lashed out and liked it
calling him out on his selfishness
not caring that each word I spat would undoubtedly
have the opposite effect
driving stake after stake between us
with each word I said
there is a dark energy
in our world of Schaafs
we take
and there’s never enough
how can I keep this from going out in the world
how can I possibly shift it
we keep repeating the mistakes of the past
our humanity diminished each go around
the Dalai Lama says
be kind whenever possible
it is always possible
but I don’t know how to respond kindly to unkindness
in a way that won’t lead to more
I don’t know how to read two books at once
sometimes I doubt I have enough love to give
sometimes the relief of peace seems as elusive
as drinking from the shimmer
of the highway’s mirage
truce (a love poem)
because your unbeing is possible
today in the middle of our muddle about
showers
I collapse
fall like a drop
onto your bed
and surrender
this is so dumb for us to be arguing about
I throw in the towel
and, disarmed, you agree and
we cease
to struggle
both knowing how now will be then
and not wanting to look back wistful
disappointed in ourselves and our carelessness
not wanting to squander love’s warmth
on righteousness
saying goodbye to a little spark
he’s all in red
toddling quickly and confidently
telling us all of his favorite things
and we all have smiles
and pained expressions
because none of us care enough
to stop what will happen next
Feeling Grateful
at the spring band concert
it’s not like fall
yes, we are the same people
lined up in the same hallway
to watch the same kids
play the same instruments
in the same black and white clothes
but we’re not the same
the talk is of the fire
where were you?
how are you?
where are you living now?
and the undercurrent in every conversation is
I’m so glad you’re still alive
your kid is still alive
we’re still alive
not all the instruments are the same
not all the black and white clothes made it
but we all did
we’re all still alive and here to listen
to the sixth graders labor through Lean on Me
and the Jazz Band absolutely kill it
playing Feeling Good
natural dissonance
the irony isn’t lost on me
running the air purifier
and the oven self-clean cycle
simultaneously:
we all do our best
to manage our inconsistencies
in the dark
under the stars
Fennec is tense with listening
uncomfortable to be out in the wild night
but curious what’s here
inside, the boys squabble over
who can help rip out the carpet
Alex says it’s like Huck Finn
but we all breathe easier
when the orange shag’s removed
at the spring
we all look up and know
this is why we’re here
trying to get clean
air purifiers –
hot new accessory of the 2020s
with prefilters in an array of colors
to match your moods –
I go for charcoal
over electric blue
when we open it
the boys discuss how it compares
to the ones at their schools
especially in their auditoriums
it’s one more thing I’ve never dealt with
that these times demand
