sketchbook #2

If I told you what this is meant to be, 

you would laugh -- and by you, 

I am thinking of a specific person. 

So I will not tell you about the body, 

the seeds, the rooting, the strong cornerstone. 

I do not know if I believe what I believe anymore. 

Instead, I will point out the blue against the black, 

the interesting twist of turquoise against orange, 

the comfort of brown.  I will make you look at the green, 

yes, you would ask you to look at that a long while. 

Then I would take you back to Howe Elementary School, 

that huge art classroom in the basement.  

The teacher, whose name you cannot remember. 

I would take you back to the day 

when you were five and saw the color wheel.

When she talked to you about 

primary colors and secondary colors.

I would take you back to that exact second 

when you learned that green 

is made by mixing blue with yellow. 

How you folded the paint together and saw it happen,

this magic alchemy rolling together in so many shades. 

And I would ask you to remember that now, 

that green is made by mixing blue and yellow,

that newness springs -- in one quick twist -- 

from the deepest sadness finding its light. 

That's all it is, this lifetime.  

Making green.  So lay it on the paper, 

a big first grade blob of blue 

and turn to the brightness in your life --

that saint, that sanctuary, 

the new song that won't stop spinning.

Turn to the poet on Duncan Street, open that favorite book, 

eat three slices of warm pork tenderloin. 

Walk to the tree, hold the baby, 

do whatever it is, find whatever it is 

-- your yellow--and slather it in.  

Then start stirring, 

swirl one into the other, 

your sadness and your hope, 

until the new hue feels just right. 

homecoming

In the twenty three hours I was in the hospital, 

my front yard and porch were transformed into this. 

Have you ever seen anything like it? All love and sparkles?  

Gifts from my friends glowing me home. 

As someone who has easy grasp of words, 

and knows what to say in most settings, 

I fall silent.  All I can say is thank you to you, 

and thank you to God  for you.  How lucky am I?

we are

...the seeds, the water, the incremental growth. 

We are the eyes, the mouth, the hands reaching. 

We are one body united, 

individually indispensable. 

We are one strong foundation, 

many leaning on the same cornerstone. 

We are the living stones.  We are the living stones. 

Can you hear me?  We are living stones

so ancient and able.

mantle

The mantle of the earth 

is between the crust and the core

and I wonder if my new arrangement 

in my house is that too. 

Something between what the world sees 

then assumes to be true

and the deepest burning part of me. 

I wanted this to look just right

with the red, the wood, the white. 

I wanted this to have friendly snow men, 

a trinity of boxes, candles, my prayer vessel, 

and balls.  I knew I needed the balls. 

And underneath this Country Homes mantle

is the core of me, all 7000 degrees celsius.

Burning on itself, fueling itself, 

in some suffocating centripetal spin.

Part of me is this which is pretty

and that which is on fire. 

Part of me is the prayer box and the ball. 

Part of me is the wreath, 

the bulbous belly of the snowman. 

Part of me is giving birth 

as I roar with something missing. 

I dusted every surface this morning, 

I placed then rearranged every object.  

I created balance and sweeping sightlines.

While in me, I was burning away the last nine months, 

setting fire to the dizziness, the silence, 

the months of no, the pinching self-condemnation.  

And while that heat bears pain, birthing pain, 

I am surprised to feel hope swing into the vacuum. 

Now, not consumed with what will never be, 

I am flickering with what is desired:

love without judgement, peace without fear, 

grace without expectation. 

And I know that,  like this lush planet, 

ornament to the universe, 

I contain it all and 

am somehow welcome in this mantle place: 

on the crusty edge of what is and what burns to be. 

 

There is a time

Every November, the militia comes out. 

Huge machines scrape and blow the tree lawn piles 

into the middle of the street, 

sometimes the stack of debris is ten feet tall. 

I love this machine, the one that can push, scoop and lift

the leaves in the flatbed trucks.  He is king of all. 

Some years, I have watched as I do other things in my yard, 

but today I got up to watch it all.  I sat right on my stoop, 

as the chilled air made my breath winter white.

And it did not take long for me to wish that I could add

other stuff to the pile, stuff that could be taken out of here

to decompose elsewhere: 

her "no" when I asked if we could lay down one more time, 

the empty hollow of my house some nights, 

the "I could have" thoughts that still skitter through my brain, 

the conversation we will never get to have,

my dry skin, the new worry lines on my face, 

the bed, so wide and cold, 

the unknowing, the what ifs, the I may nevers, 

the silverware stacked in the sink. 

I wish the men would come and blow 

the piles of hindsight off the yellowing grass, 

and push it all into the middle of the street, 

with my neighbor's miscarriage, 

the deaf dog, my friend L's dissolving marriage, 

all of the scrapes and scars that beloved children may get, 

the words mothers say that stick and damage for years, 

the stiff space between hard conversations, 

bruises on the hip, bruises on the soul. 

I wish we could stack it all ten feet high, 

twenty feet if needed, 

and drive it all away to a place 

where these things can be placed, 

molt and change into reusable matter, 

instead of doing this hard work--

this work that must be done --

by churning and composting 

the sadnesses in our hearts. 

my hand

...would have been on the small of your back. 

My hand would have found the crook in your elbow. 

I would have leaned my weight against your weight, 

and wrapped you in my sister hug. 

There, as your living father turned into a legend, 

as he passed from this place to another, 

joining his wife and daughter,

and every dog that ever galloped toward him wagging, 

I wish you would have had a sweet soft place to land.

I wish you had been encircled, that night and every night, 

an arm wrapped around your waist, 

a hand on your heart in the dark. 

It is hard to be here among the living

when one part of you is dead. 

And it is hard to ache for life

as parts of you have a winter numb. 

But, know this, you are loved, 

you are alive, and I count on your light. 

Even as I know you'll return to the sea

and find your home in the town your father is buried, 

part of you will always be right here, 

in me, in others like me who love you so much. 

And no matter where you are, 

or how your reach out, 

our hands will find you and hold you tight. 

you made me...

...smile like this, 

my eyes shiny and open.

And you made me 

sleep safely, 

speak honestly, 

honor the truth. 

You made me 

love a new food, 

fly a new kite, 

visit a new dream. 

You made me 

heal and hope, 

you kept me up late at night. 

You made me see the stars, 

look at the moon, 

you gave me a new song to sing.

No one else, 

remember that. 

No one else but you.