poetry

one more small loss in the immense field of losses

one more small loss in the immense field of losses

the orange koi survived the embers
weathered the flames
withstood the ash

through it all they swam circles
in the little stone pond

but the day came when the bulldozer
rumbled and scraped and wrought
smooth dirt where their little depression had been

some things are not survivable
not all allegories have happy ends

now this earth bears
their quiet little bodies, too

poetry

unmasking

Photo from The Flint Journal showing masked auto workers in 1918.

unmasking

Thinking of our relatives who died from diphtheria: my grandfather’s mother Rosemary Farley Schaaf (seen in the sidebar photo here), my grandmother’s sisters Frances and Josephine Barber, and Alex’s grandmother’s siblings Ruth and Bert Waldman.

Friday they will unmask us
and what will our faces do?
twitch nervously or beam gratefully?

after two years of suspended anticipation
my hope muscles have atrophied
I’ve lost the knack for moving on, moving forward

we’ve no link with the 1918 survivors –
the year my grandfather was born,
he’d no memory of it

instead, diphtheria is the story my husband and I grew up with:
four of our grandparents’ siblings and one mother claimed
while our grandparents were still children

now we get the Tdap or DTaP shot and
our grandparents’ devastating loss feels like
something from a different world

but those 1918 flu survivors –
how did they shed their masks and re-emerge?
how did masking become unknown to us all again?

I’ve lost my bearings for judging what is safe
I don’t even know what Greek letter comes next
let alone how to recognize it hovering on the horizon

it’s like trying to judge which smoke is from California
and which is from the next block
ready to claim what’s yours

in these days
when threats are everywhere
and we’ve grown unacquainted with joy

I still can’t imagine bringing my naked face
somewhere it could calmly swallow
anything new

poetry

mourning cloak

Owen took this black bear photo.

mourning cloak

ragged wings still shimmer
in weak sun
against all expectations
weathering another winter
squeezed in the tight clasp
of bark and trunk

how sweet that makes
today’s taste of willow nectar
just broken from bud