If I get a pet snake
I'll name him Nigel
inspired by "Making Plans for . . ."
as I drove home late at night
reminded of Geoff
who like a frustrated spouse
told me I didn't discipline our campers enough
and always made him the heavy.
But we laughed together when we heard
XTC sing about Nigel
on our lunch break.
And I think of him every time I hear it
his laugh ever present in the quirky name
though some crazy cancer
took him before he could ripen into a man old enough to carry a name like Nigel
Not the fireworks
But the smash and crash of the
Glass Monday morning
Stop
leave the key in the door,
turn right round where you are
See, feel, hear
the wind rush through the trees
Let yourself be lifted in its flow
the great whirling above our heads
that we miss
when we only look down
Going gluten free has taken away the joy of a dinner roll.
What is it about that plump pillow of yeasty goodness
that inspires joy
that conjures childhood holiday dinners
Fresh white linens nestled into the silvery swoop of a bread bowl,
cradling the warm treasure inside.
Peeling the paper thin square from its side,
folding it into my mouth where it immediately melts,
before pressing a cool smear of butter
against its warm surface
leaving enough of a layer
so the salty bite stands on its own for just a beat before
it melds together in all its glutinous glory.
Imagine you are in your happy place
It wasn’t my meditation
Do you like to float?
I can never fully let go
Let the salt water buoy you
I want that for her
You are free
We all want the same thing
I wrote a poem about loss.
No one died, but all around me there was empty space with the possibility.
When we worry, when the unknowns build into an ugly catastrophe
it’s easy to be overwhelmed by the gravity of it all.
In the stark cavity created by the spidery black legs of a thinly padded plastic chair and the expanse of institutional white tile below
sat the plastic bag
holding the physical items that tied personality to my baby
The ones she doffed for an anonymous starched gown
that dwarfed her inside
all of the unknown
While I sat staring at the obscenely transparent plastic holding but a small part of her.
There is nothing so sad as a clear plastic hospital bag.
Kite-string thin threaded through plastic puckers
pulling at the corners, ripping at the seams
The material trappings of this world lumped at the bottom
Empty expanse of cellophane spread out for the world to see
Contained for safe keeping
Inconsequential in the aftermath
Who cares for scrunchies and soft socks
When the immaterial has left this mortal coil
Low pressure
in the atmosphere and in an indeterminate one of four tires
13 miles till empty
Critically low levels of battery life
The evidence amasses in the case against energy
A body at rest tends to stay at rest
in these days of the tail end of winter,
the cold strung out to a sparse thread of frost,
the wind a constant movement that won’t blow it away
Weak sun filters through a constant cast
Broken branches brittle and gray
join at intersecting angles
skeletal shapes the only thing of interest on the ground
And yet no where near alive
We imbue our mothering with the ghost of our other children
The empty embrace of the one we just sent away
causes us to cling ever tightly to the one in front of us
The overflowing vessel of a love we never got to pour
floods the existence of the next to come into being
It is never only about the child in question
Our actions are the answer to all
the worries
hopes
fears
attachments
neurosis and
emotional stability within us.
It is a web
we can only see
when the sun
alights
on the tips
of frozen blades
of grass
I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm. She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, her fingers working through a small section of it. Though their eyes don’t meet, they are connected by this intimate act And I want to cry For their bond and bonds broken, For the simple when things have gotten so complicated, For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it
Chopping Potatoes 