This Is Not Poverty

I wrote this poem about a year ago, on a day when I was feeling stressed about money.  Fast forward to today and I am once again anxious about financial stuff.  And once again, this poem seems fitting.  Isaac and I went to the doggie beach today and I waded in the cool lake, feeling the sand under my bare toes, while he played with other dogs and ran and swam.

This Is Not Poverty

There is a sky
a million shades of blue.
There is a hazel lake
and sand soft and warm
beneath my bare feet.
There is a dog
the color of wheat and straw and sand
running at the water's edge
who loves me.
I think I am the richest person
in the world.

Befriending the Elephant

This is just a rough draft and needs some editing.  But here it is, so far.

Befriending the Elephant

It's hard to get rid of it.
It won't fit through the door.
Maybe you could kill it, dismember it,
but somehow that seems cruel,
and also messy,
the blood would stain the carpet,
you'd never get it out.

You can't just ignore it.
Oh, you've tried,
only to discover
you sat right in a huge pile of elephant shit,
only to have the elephant
step on your toes,
bruising them, breaking those little bones.

What's left, other than to befriend the beast?

Prayers in Boxes

My hands,
once supple and strong,
now aged and aching,
lift dusty books from their shelves,
fit them carefully into boxes,
tape them closed,
label them with a black Sharpie,
the smell of which slices through
the smell of dust and mold
and love grown old.

There are cobwebs in my hair
and tears in my throat.

On one shelf,
alongside books about writing,
I find the prayer journal I made him
I-don’t-remember-how-many years ago.
I flip through its yellowed pages,
touched that he kept it all this while,
and at the same time so aware
he never wrote a word
on those carefully crafted pages.

That was the problem all along,
of course,
I realize
as I tuck the journal into a box
with other books
and seal the top with tape.

If There Was a Way

If there was a way to give you one more day,
I'd hold you in my arms here forever.
Is it wrong for me to feel this way?
Is it selfish to want you to stay?
I know sometimes love means letting go
but I'm bleeding deep in my soul.
I can't stand to see you suffer,
I'd rather watch you die
so I'll stand here in my tears
and find a way to say good-bye.

What Would Jesus Do?

If Jesus came back today

as a carpenter, would he be poor?

Would he be forced to apply for food stamps?

Would he suffer the indignities at the welfare office

with grace and compassion?  Would he ever be tempted

to go back there with a gun and blow the place away?

Elephants

An elephant is the only mammal
that cannot jump.
I guess that's why it stands here
in the middle of the living room
while we serve tea on its back
and speak in hushed tones.

Kaleidoscopes

I just thought I'd share that a couple of my poems, Some Bells Should Ring and How Many Hail Mary's?, are going to be published in an upcoming issue of Kaleidoscopes, a literary journal that publishes work by disabled writers, much of it (though not all) about their experiences with disability.  I had some pieces published by them several years ago, and had submitted these two pieces as well, but they were not selected for publication at that time.  I was quite surprised when the editor contacted me a couple days ago and told me she'd held on to these two for all those years because she'd really liked them and asked if she could publish them in an upcoming issue.

Of course, I said yes.  It's been a while since I've had any poetry published.  I haven't really been in the mood to write much poetry in a while and the process of submitted stuff for publication is kind of a pain.  It's fun to have work published but you very rarely get paid for poetry.  Most of the time you are lucky if you get a free copy of the journal or magazine your work appears in.  Sometimes you actually have to buy a copy if you want one.  So instead I spend my time writing about things like genital warts and scabies and eating disorders and alcoholism, which actually pays money.

This was a pleasant surprise.  And I don't get many of those in my life these days. 

Poem: Vigil

I am at work.
I am kneading dough,
soft and supple and alive

under my hands.

I am wearing the green apron,
and have flour on my hair.

Two hundred miles away, you are in hospital.
They don’t know if you will live the night.

I am slicing tomatoes,
perfect thin prayer wheels.

I could pack my bag,
drive down through the darkness,
be there long before first light.
You would not know I was there.

The knife is silver, and sharp in my hand.
The steel is cool, and comforting.
The ovens are hot, and I sweat,
weeping through my pores.

There could still be time
to say goodbye.

But I am peeling onions,
their papery skins like dead leaves
under my fingers.
The onions make me cry.

Bittern

Seems like time for a poem.

Bittern

Do not tell me
not to dwell in bitterness
for I dwell in the desert
and the sand is arid and dry
and scratches raw my throat
whenever I speak.

Do not tell me
not to dwell in bitterness
for I shall eat of the acrid herbs
until I am full of them
and only then will they pass
from my body,
leaving clean my heart,
my hands, my soul.

Poem: Praying My Own Private Rosary

Praying My Own Private Rosary

I peel the bandage back,

see the neat row of stitches

stepping across my wrist

like the tracks of a bird

in the snow.

Gingerly I trace the threads,

touch the knots

like rosary beads,

only I don’t

know what to pray.

Poem: In a House on Fire

In a House on Fire

The smoke was a serpent

winding its way beneath my door,

silent as it crept across the floor, searching.

I did not know it was there until it rose,

sliding up one leg, wrapping itself around my waist,

coiling across my shoulders, licking my neck.

Oh, I fought it, that heavy gray dark.

The smoke tangled itself in my hair,

whispered my name,

soft and seductive as a lover.

I struggled, and I succumbed.

Poem: Prozac in the Water

It seems like a poetry kind of day.

Prozac in the Water

They should just put Prozac in the water supply,

you say, but I shake my head.

The water would be so bitter.

It would taste like the insides of mental institutions,

like Belleview, McLean,

like ECT and strait jackets and quiet rooms.

It would taste like walls painted hospital-green,

like paper slippers and gowns that open in the back.

Cold sheet packs and insulin shock and trans-orbital lobotomies.

The city couldn’t swallow it, I say.