when you were three (for Ev)
you say i don’t love you
so we count it out on our fingers
each of our four fingers uncurl
with each word until they are
spread out and waving.
we say it again
closing our fists and opening them
until my hand relaxes
and my arms reach toward you
to hold you and
I went into 2017 thinking I would revive this ol’ blog with deep thoughts and regular posts, but I ended up posting less than I ever have. (I’ve been blogging since 1999, you guys)
It was a weird year for my writing. I felt really self conscious about it and at the same time determined to write something I could submit for publication. It’s not surprising that this mindset shut me down creatively and I barely wrote at all. I filled notebooks and journals, but I had a hard time finishing anything.
I’ve finally swung back around to the reasons I write in the first place, and it feels really good to be grounded again. I write to remember, to pay attention, to thank God.
(also because I want to and have to and need to.)
Anyway, I’m back in this humble little space (hi mom!) resolved to keep at it, whatever that looks like.
It seems important to document what’s on my mind at the beginning of 2018. This is the kind of thing that will be interesting to look back on someday, right?
The Sentimentality Trap by Benjamin Myers (I keep coming back to this one.)
Father, Let Your Kingdom Come (featuring Urban Doxology, Liz Vice, and Latifah Alattas)
book (currently reading)
The Situation and the Story: The Art of Personal Narrative by Vivian Gornick
Letter to Alice by Jane Kenyon
I would love to know what you’re into as well.
Sunlight flings across the parking lot onto
the apartment building
diagonal from us.
I watch as light drips down the windows
like the freshest egg yolk.
It’s dinnertime and inside, on the 5th floor,
I am making pancakes
listening as the egg cracks
watching as the yolk sinks into the batter
So-long to this winter day
to the sunlight now removed from
the hours we sat inside reading
Three horses gallup in the dim living room
as I whisk the runny pancake mixture
and outside the sun drips all the way down.
Under the deepest blue canopy
I search for miracles as I watch
my toddler in his fleece-lined jeans
run against the pull of stiff fabric.
He is like a pigeon determined to get away.
He walks through the leaves with
a stick in his hand.
He is not afraid to run off
into the road.
As I pull him back from the curb,
I imagine the baby in a manger,
fragile and brand new,
safe in his own mother’s arms.
beneath the strands of christmas lights
thrown over bushes, draped across trees
stands a boy in floppy mittens
observing the galaxy
The road is damp from
snow that didn’t stay
Through the open windows of
the tofu restaurant I hear ladies
clamoring and chatting,
their personal lives
The convenience store across the street
hasn’t changed in a while.
The outside walls are worn like a favorite
kitchen apron with grease stains and other
predictable signs of wear.
Faithful customers gather at plastic tables
people-watching and smoking cigarettes
I walk between these comfortable
places, through the snow that could have been
Looking down I see the word painted on the road
reads “slow” in Korean.
Light from the south facing window
slides in between the blinds
onto the new rug
where yesterday the children
flipped around in wonder.
Is this what snow feels like?
They ask as they lie down
to make carpet angels
I tend to agree with Ted Kooser when
he says you should never send a poem into
the world with its shirt untucked.
But what if the poem invites us in?
Maybe there’s a place for
unfinished drafts written by
a tired mama on her sofa after dark.
Poems in pajamas, words in a hurry.
Fragments of documentation,
the absurd and the full-of-delight.
Here on this worn out couch with
I scribble out vulnerable messes—
an exercise in paying attention,
in giving the critic inside
a drink of water and sending her
back to bed.
Found this earlier draft of the same poem, and I can’t decide which version I like more:
Ted Kooser advises
not to send poems into the world
with their shirts untucked.
I agree wholeheartedly, but perhaps there
Is also a place for drafts
Written by a tired mama on her sofa after dark.
Words underlined for later.
Perhaps one day I will come back to these scribbles
to clean them up and make them more presentable.
But right now they spill out of notebooks and files,
and I would rather send them off
With love than hide them away inside.
Take these for what they are:
vulnerable messes in disguise,
Fragments of delight
This is what I have to offer—my heart,
my sleeves, my shirt untucked.
They’re repaving the square
where giant tree roots have
caused the bricks to roll
like the sea
above the heart
of the trees as they
lift and pull the
bricks out of their
them off the foundation
and setting them aside.
I hear a saw cutting boards to replace
what’s been lifted.
Trees in place for
near the cell phone
shop, look on
On the mornings we eat cereal
and the bottom of the inside bag is full
of dust, we lift the glued edges of a brand new
box with urgency.
Two distinct pops release the glue at the edges of
Pinching the plastic bag together
on either side we pull it apart and watch the glue
separate in lines along the serrated edges
The inside is packed with oats and multi grains
always added vitamins
The berries on the outside of the box,
juicy and oversized,
are never included.
The spoon drawer slams open on its tracks
vibrating the silverware that’s been
waiting in the dark until now
I grab a small spoon without even looking
The cereal falls out of the box,
jumping around until
milk pours over the bobbing
circles in the bowl
Clink. In goes the spoon to the very bottom
Dunked into the breakfast mixture
shoveling scoops of what is now wet and crunchy
but will soon change to soggy mush