Standing

Summer--like snow before--
remakes my world into
an unknowable
loving

In the vines' arch embrace
Leaves bloom, pat me
as I pass in lashes
of love

It seems you dream of
us in the wake of
these whispers--
hearing

Voices that are right, ready:
Justice is late in coming
but protest is already
here.

The Low Road

Big A is cheating the puppies at play in this picture; I want the record to show that 😊. Also, despite a full day, it felt quite low. But also, I've been remembering Marge Piercy's poem, and plan to share it with the family tomorrow at dinner.

(In other news, birthday parties for KB and SS and a fougasse bake-along with PM and posse.)

Pandemic, Spring

Across a tawny field that will be green
next week, a stand of maples, waving,
trunks spaced six feet or more apart
as if they’d heard the governor’s order.

As if they, too, were keeping distance,
while in the earth an interplay of fine
roots and tiny fungi relays messages,
shares sustenance, keeps in touch.

From here, their lacy crowns look bare,
spreading as they reach out toward a sky
delicately blue as a robin’s egg. Yet there
a thousand thousand leaf buds hold tight

ready to unfurl in jubilation. Till then
the trees hang on, deep-rooted, keeping
their distance, holding each other close.

Linda Mills Woolsey 3/27/2020

Today (in the pandemic)

MSU Perennial Gardens

I had become a book
that then became a bird
when I perched in this birch,
tumbling kisses into our earth

Almost

I am worried for my friend
whose young sister has passed away
and tomorrow is coming

and my friend is coming back
and I'm venting to Big A about how
death doesn't make any sense.

And I'm sitting by his feet in a darkened room
in the middle of the morning, because he's trying
to sleep before he works the E.R. tonight.

And he's stroking my ankles, telling me
that "everybody dies, every body dies--you
know we're walking with ghosts."

My skin prickles surprise, I want to hear it
again until it turns out what he had said was--
"you know that's how it goes..."

The Beauty

I am two years ten months old,

beloved first-born: am told my face 

is open as windows, my smiles gems

of happiness, when baby sister is born.

I remember being taken to visit

Amma and the wrinkly new baby 

too in the hospital, in the morning, right 

before I have to go to Mrs. Pinto's "school."

And I remember the chill of nerves

the clunky thump of suspense, feeling 

so sneaking clever when--patting her tenderly, 

I tell my parents: "Baby sister--Chelli Paapa--

is so, so beautiful; I don't want to go to school."

My ploy creeps on, it has lived many lives

it has floated past memory's borders, 

the recall slowly fading.

When I retell it now, on this whole other continent, 

my own kids chortle, roll their eyes, call me 

"playa." My face is a window, is a mirror, 

my face is a door that lets the lie in.

 But my parents have told this story for decades,
in a haze of earnestness, claimed 'blessings
--love or beauty or children, or the hazy
necessity of whatever comes next.  

dreamed a dream

Our moon is too long ago
is very nearly gone

did it fall like plump fruit
into the water? Will it rise?

I am still so afraid, my voice
tears pulled from the well

All "good morning" and "what
seems to be the matter."

Loving as a kind (of) argument

All our hellos call
to each other

and now our smiles
are missiles

silence is the
scent

touch--the rocket
we make

translating "I"
as "you too"

come, come, come
let's go

Earshot

my mind--more a revolving door

lets me in, lets me out

every question, any song brings 

anger, then I'm sad 

there's no sun, and all light is 

gentle. Alright--absent

I want, I want so much and yet--

take nothing... I take hold

By the time I got home

By the time I got home
I was worthy of love
I was dressed in hope

your words don't reach
are just not as sharp
I see myself here

I see myself here
not as you see me
not as you say I am

Line

I try to drown in light

slight and brown

the river writes 

leaves drop graffiti

set out to swim tonight 

#MSU #RedCedarRiver

Witness

my illiterate left hand startles
as I write my children again

Empty at last
opening fists
to make nests

singing the quiet like a top 20
ashes, wishes wafting off me 

Catch

tickles start in my palm, aim for my pits
catch in my throat: I am open, I let
my shame (shame) show

here are bugs leaking from my breath
like starry maps from blind eyes. O
I have lost my fingerprints

I must just be falling asleep I must be
falling falling falling into depths
or deaths. I don't

know the presidents who visit in my
dreams on boats shaped like me,
wooden as my smile. I fight

I find my freedom with my fists and feet
the slick of water still gets me though
entanglement, undertow

-

Tableau

So I'm in a car. I'm in a car stopped at a traffic light.
On the block on which my son lives now. It's by the--
by the Starbucks redux, by the telephone pole, by the
old 7-11, the zebra crossing, the Asian buffet--And. At--

At the zebra crossing, a mom looks on fiercely as: her
skinny toddler drops her hand, and steps precisely--as if
at prom, then delays--to tiptoe the three steps--three steps
away to press the button--the button that will summon the

white walk-sign man. And then I think she says thank you.
That's it. Oh. NoNo. there's a baby too, who anchors the mom,
who had yielded attention for a moment, but is now bouncing--
bouncing, appealing, willing mom to look--look back. Willing

her to smile back. I imagine the baby is a girl; the toddler is a boy.
I'm not reading their signs, only feeling my past. And they're so
close, so I'm smiling and nodding my encouragement to the child,
the baby still bouncing in the pram, the mom. Nodding to myself--

It's that familiar. Memories buzz in the car's hum of silence. The
residuum of busy, sticky hands I've let go. Panic--a fog. The years
alertly sliding in--backlog. Stuck waiting for a sign--green--walk--
wait--ok fine--we're waiting--so incoherent with longing, still, life--


______________________
Ha. I've managed to sneak "At" And "NoNo" in there.

-

Nine miles of pavement

alone but with thoughts and lyrics
the whistle and whoosh of traffic

I can imagine the uplift of impact
almost feel I might be able to fly

Unclear Condition

Morning is manic fog
milky, vanishing, slipping
under cereal, hugs,
reminders, lists,
all the things
we must bring

they are literal--Driving
the littlest human
to school and...
you know what?
they say...
that may be frost

just ponds of them
hanging out in the fields
with horses, ducks
the littlest human watches
my face cautiously
for a trace of panic

Fog flaps in the wind.
like blankets, begins to
put this year to bed. I
wonder where the sun will be
this time, next year--
and will we be here

An Epistemology

The planes and birds just fly past
the long conversations
from our history

In the doorways amongst trees
we are getting bigger by
one more breath

With loud shouts, are shared maps
for the future, showing us all
the three ways to survive


      
_

Danusha Laméris: Small Kindnesses

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk 

down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs 

to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you” 

when someone sneezes, a leftover 

from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying. 

And sometimes, when you spill lemons 

from your grocery bag, someone else will help you 

pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot, 

and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile 

at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress 

to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, 

and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.

We have so little of each other, now. So far 

from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. 

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these 

fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,

have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

_

Nuclei

My heart pulses like a womb
mind races like a detective
mouth is full of seeds
and leftovers

A cardinal in a tree like a flag
I'm in tears nearby fleeing
the hardscrabble of lies
and kisses

What if the compass is my face
slowing the world with sighs
say flowers are our saints
fierce, fearsome.


------





Nu was cleaning out At's car (it cost him 5$$$), and I was keeping her company, walking the driveway with music and marveling at how green everything looks. At then went to see Chapo Trap House up in Traverse City with his friends.










-

The Telling

It's like we are hoarding
their journeys, songs, stories
their trauma alone, icy, burning

It is in the dripping of pain
from the empty sky, empty day,
the scrim of our red, weeping hearts

What rends us, is the vatic cry
of all the children calling, calling,
calling our names, even as we sleep

***