exercise three . short and long . long:coffee . february 9 . 2010
We both smell like coffee, we both have tears fat or spare huddling on the borders of our tired sad eyes, and we both regret this incident, the one that still cannot be considered "over," done, our conflict is ongoing, a parent-child incursion that is perhaps more partnership, adversarial, parallel imprisonment in this long, long shipshold of anger, headed without rudder on a fool's journey toward release, release from our tight hot self-centered-ness, our rage of powerlessness, our bond not just that of mother, son, but the shackles of inmates forlornly certain of a larger guilt than any jury could decide, the rope of common supplicants, both desperately in want, in need, of forgiveness; the clasped hands of two who may only be on a calm walk around the block on this, the uncannily gorgeous February day-dawned with fog and circumstance, infused with a primal need to smell the air, laced as it is with the scent of importunate lilac, heedless honeysuckle, brave crocus souls bursting recklessly into this not-even-close to spring day. We breathe deep, we say to ourselves each in our own language, "be calm," we head home to peace each within ourselves.
exercise three . short and long . short:he comes home . february 9 . 2010
I am not ready. I am not here, yet, not right. I cannot; I am powerless; I am weak. Without respect I cannot father them. Without fathering, I cannot endure them. Without control, I am out of breath, gulping. I gasp, gulp, but cannot swallow. Give me air -- give me power. I need this, I do not know what I need. The weight, the yoke, it is too heavy. I must cast it off -- but, I cannot. It is locked to me. It is locked with deep blood-bonds. It is locked with senseless responsibility. It should make sense. ut I cannot untangle this logic.
exercise one . being gorgeous . temper . january 25 . 2010
He picked one up, one, and then another, peppering, pieces on the carpet squares, the pine floor. Now his temper rose and he began to yank handfuls, scattering them wider, finally grasping the flat round sorting basket with both hands, upending it. "Can you be calm now?" I asked, "Noounh!" was the answer, no, it was gathering still. He cast about for a goodlier spot of destruction and lit upon the easel. I watched, sidelong, not quite expecting that he wood -- he did -- he is -- and the crash of the slim wood frame toppling onto him hurt us both more than he could conceivably have felt, in the heat of his rage.
I gathered him in my arms, he, crying a ragged screech, large wounded maritime bird, hoarse old man, frustration amok. I picked up a book -- "No BOOooh!" he flung his head, tensed shoulder blades, arch and release and ---- I left him then, narrator flying, alighting on the tops of window frames, watched as the boy, the mother, rose and fell, a tarantelle gone backward. At last, he heaved and sighed and, eyes closed, said, "no deesh!" -- no kiss, and, as if I, yogi mother, had coached him, by degrees clenched muscles and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, until the sounds of his brothers overtook his own. Back in my flesh, I lapsed into listening to the boys in their sleep-sodden sonance, scrape of teeth across teeth, jaw against jawbone; kicks and snorts and sniffles and starts, and I held my breath there, a minute, heart open, raw as sushi, melting into the night.
discovery . november 07 . 2009
He had discovered it on Thursday,
the little blue car, long secreted in the bottom of the toy box.
In that moment it became favorite; blessed with a tiny spring,
the sort that winds when the wheels are pulled in reverse,
then launches the axels in forward ecstasy, released.
For an hour, more, he
drove car off couch, windowsill, bed,
asking me time and again, 'watch, watch mama!'
and jumping each time, elbows askew, hands waving.
'That was a perfect landing!' he'd say, so happy
he growled. Again. 'That wasn't a perfect landing,'
said he, head-shaking, but the glee in his eyes was matchless, fireworks.
And now it was just Saturday night.
Friday, I'd found the spring mechanism and rear wheels
wrenched accidentally from the car's haunches
I'd tossed them both into the car bin, considering mending, but
busying, away.
The toy had no steel, no mettle, no hale or heart,
it could not last a second night.
and on Saturday, I discovered it gutted, no wheels, nothing
but a blue plastic shell
I thought, briefly, of trash, cleansing,
leaving space for only useful, whole toys,
then in my mind's eye, I saw his brown gaze, the thrill at every catapult.
and put the hull back into the car bin,
to jumble still amongst the stalwart things.
Respect, for two days of discovered joy.
this is your world . october 18 . 2009
You say this is the world,
this will prepare them, prevent, teach.
You are sure, you have considered the outcomes,
in your chess game it's obvious, the knight must be slayed,
just consequences: I immodestly left it in harm's way.
I nod and my soul crinkles,
I have no words that will make you see
I try a scientific approach, studies,
game theory perhaps, logical conclusions
I am failing on all fronts
my own pieces lying, dishonored, heartbroken, on their sides on the dining room table.
This is your world, yours,
your domain with your own best loves
not mine, not his, not theirs,
these boys -- who desire this:
adventure, imagination, swordfights and struggles and swooping leaps
to swing from the willow tree
to climb the fence
to conquer the neighborhood with valor and great love.
You may show them your world,
but the lessons are only this:
take no joy here,
here, your fist pounds the dirt, the line should be drawn,
and here too, DON'T
they cannot see the world through your eyes,
repercussions will not give them fresh sight.
Closing the door on their joy
crumbles my world, too,
and teaches them only longing, loss.
Bereft of abandon,
un-wilded, they
skulk behind your berms,
cry out in the night
"let GO of me!"
Take down the borders
open the doors
stop the supervision
give them room to leap, scramble, scruff,
climb, jump, fall, go
everywhere, imprudent.
This is not my world, not ours,
give me back my rook, stand it up, it's mine to make fall
I choose: the world is joy.
heliotrope . july 20 . 2009
sun, guide, light
it is to you I blindly nod
following your brilliance
though it is only
now,
closed,
clenching my bracts in their tight star
I see you most clearly.
soon
I will unfurl, open, reveal
shine like you,
namesake,
mentor,
providence
and in my glory, bow to you
no more.
impressions, backyard . july 12 . 2009
Rain-cloudy day, sunflowers burst, ironically
heralding what is not there, glorious
in flame-colors, sun-colors, heat in the wet cool grey.
And they are not all. Blueberries, plump indigo warmth
splat between teeth, bursting hot and dark
filling soul, belly with summer.
Chickens crawwwk, bawwwk, hello!
birthing each morning, a ritual, an egg
while others nod and cluck, agreeing
this is a good day to be born.
watch for internal rhyme— . june 05 . 2009
'Watch for internal rhyme—'
he wrote in the margin. I still
remember the scribble, elegant as
he was, professor of English with a last name
that could have been his first.
So Southern, in the British way
that my memory is punctuated
criticism made poem by my arcing brain.
Margin notes in red, black, blue
scatter through my mind, billiard balls well-shot,
each with its purpose, neatly dropping the score.
'Careful with alliteration,' she wrote,
he said, '.'
I do not forget, as I walk;
run, nurse, bike, scrub, dig through my days,
I remember, and flout, saying:
'Lance Corporal fancy Nancy Hanson,'
'please squeeze the bees' knees.' The boys
dissolve in giggles, roll eyes, squeal, and I
think to myself, 'watch for internal rhyme.'
'Careful.'
I embrace these rules of prose, love to
widen my eyes, appraise them,
squarely, wrinkling my nose
as if to sneeze, snort, sniff
in appreciative laughter.
I 'wrote' this in my head while I ran; and didn't get it quite right when I tried to re-create. it needs lots of work but I like the middle part. and I've yet to find the papers from college to fill in my memory.
no manicure . may 25 . 2009
Kneeling, I
hold, in one hand, the mementos of food
bean upon bean, mottled, swirled, glossy white
testimonial, totem, herald
food now, food to come.
This is what is to come;
dirt, sifted through freckled fingers, lodged indelibly under nails,
perhaps never to be manicured again, no
manicures are neither for lawn nor fingertips, here
but
dirt, dirt, here you are
spread over beans spaced neatly in rows, pushed gently into undersoil
marked with twigs and chives transplanted
watered, morning and eveningly, you will be
tended, watched, loved
as you come, first lying, murmuring, swelling, shooting
through the surface of dirt, mulch, dead life-giving matter
seedling, start, shoot, oracle, omen, plant.
As the poet says, the work of the world is common as mud
and it is mud that I give you, dirt, water, my care and feeding
my proud nods as neighbors pass
my identification, of you and with you,
garden, gardener, vegetable, food
not lawns, not ornamentals, not manicures,
the MBA is peasant
she kneels, in love, in the dirt
her work is real.
washing the dishes . march 23 . 2009
I am washing the dishes he is washing.
No, he is not washing them with me, but in the argument of our nights, our mornings, he is washing dishes and doing laundry
so these dishes are his, his work, his life
boring and sad, rift with loneliness created of suds.
Already at noon, the promise in the eyes of his morning is gone
he woke better than most, listened to me, held children in his backpack,
went on a walk, he with three, full of industry
a good dad.
Something has shifted and I,
fated by an unknown power to spend my days healing
--is it the unhealable?--
I am shifting the dishes from his method to mine,
it makes more sense to me,
his oddly disjointed and with long periods of waiting, soaking.
Life is spent in the soaking, and I have not the patience for it,
have not the patience for his repeated and tortuous bouts of self-loathing,
I see its toll on him, me, his sons,
much though I try to staunch its flow, much though I sop and mop and struggle,
much though I stand before the sink, scraping and stacking and scrubbing,
much though I love I do not love
I love but it becomes lack-of-love in the retelling, in the nightly argument.
I am washing the dishes he is washing,
this his lonely respect-less state
his being, his doing, his avocation.
It does not seem right, it is not right,
and I can agree and disagree at once. I am washing the dishes, I am loving, I am here morning and night, wanting him here, wishing for his eyes to open,
to see that these are not his dishes, not his dishes.