new poe.m - post-blizzard, spring coming

swee.tbitter unmanageable creature who steals in

Winter will bonsai the garden
whether you want it or not.
Snow heavy, bent. Removal
of branches, every berry the birds left
each seed head, flattened.
Shine, split orange bittersw.eet.
Nest, windblown, beside the rosemary
search for a remainder of sage
Tomorrow’s meal an idea you hope for,
today: brown butter, add mushrooms
wipe steam from your face
listen for the bab.y.
Let the cat come in
but shake the mouse from his jaws.
The pan is hot, iron sparks against the stove.
Sweetbitter creature who steals in,
unmanageable, loveable.
My heart seemed full, last year
it wasn’t.

fall poem

September was hard for me, I can't pretend otherwise. To pass the date we lost the baby last year, to see the flowers glow along our fence, and the blue sky and crisp air, all so similar to that terrible post-loss time. I wrote a few things, these past few weeks. This poem(written yesterday, in class) seems to best summarize my process, the quixotic joy and remembering:

Honeycrisp

Apples crisp the year
turning again, and though I will grow tired
of this fruit, today I love it, mottled skin, sweet flesh,
even the little marks. How can this day
relate to last years same date?

Tragedy marked that calendar and I shake myself
cat-like as if from rain
the rain that would not fall all through
the first fortnight of grieving.
I shake myself then hold tight.
If I could hold my breath for 24 hours
I would. If I could have held that baby in
I would have. Now, this next life jostles my ribs
and marks my breathing. I grow round

as an apple in this apple time. I try to will myself whole.
Mottled skin, sun marked, wind. I am a great
protector. I stand still, I move slowly. I turn the calendar
page, finally, to the next month. The one unmarked
by that other, first life. But is anything unblemished/unremembered?

Will next years’ apples find me loving
this time of year again? My teeth almost
meet at the edge of the apple’s core. Cool air
flushes my cheek. I am in my body, I am not the only one.
Bite to the center, there is always another layer, morsel.
I swallow and the baby turns. Receives. I am not just me,
though only two hands touch this paper, and a little juice,
clear, sweet. Undeniably now. Fleeting, but marking.

Frost

I wrote this just now, after coming in from a walk.

Frost, Red

Sun is not the only bleach of nature
the green of the raspberry leaf is almost gone
fast faded last night by our third frost.

The first night of frost hit high
the edges of plants and trees, burned black
or scorched white,
but still a steady green
held on. So recently close, the sun must stay
just one more day, maybe another
each day of waiting, green gathering food down
into the roots, readying for winter

The second night of frost hit harder, lower
gone basil, gone tomato, gone okra, gone cosmos.
Mint in its sure bed stayed green, and oregano
and raspberry. Those hardier plants.

The third night of frost edged this leaf in white
the pale green that was yesterday’s emerald is soft
against my face, removed from its red and thorned cane
my winter rough fingers barely pricked.

Each day I think it is almost done,
but my body sends forth reminders of what I lost
and am still losing. A season of blood that began
with what you helped plant into me, returns anew
after your entry last night into my body.
As if I could not go one day with only pleasure,
pleasure free of grief’s reminder.
Gone baby, gone May, gone crawling by autumn.

And still I hold onto my love for red, clad head to toe.
Though, I seem to grab any green thing
these days. Green leaf, green blanket, green cloth to warm my neck.
I fill my pockets with seeds
pull acorns from under my car, they roll together,
so constant I forget them, reach in my pockets for warmth, curl fingers around
the round hard things, smooth, with just that one sharp place.

Nothing will grow without the reminder of pain,
the need to shatter before burgeoning.

Loss and Remembrance

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day http://www.october15th.com/

A couple of lines came to me this morning(before I remembered the date) and I started to compose this, and decided to get it posted today, for everyone who has experienced a loss.

Loss

Grief leaves the body slowly,
just as a boiled egg
cooled under running water
burns the fingers
within seconds of removal

but while under the sink’s stream
your fingers feel only water
the hard shell, a slight warmth.

What is the soul?
Which part, the heart
the memory?

There are days I think
I can almost forget you
what you almost were
and what we would have become
but then it comes rushing back
like that heat
from the boiled core.

The last place to cool
the soft solid center,
the grieving heart.

Air Poem

I have had some lovely moments this week; breakfast with a friend, talking with Mr. S's mother, 'playing' with my college students, laughing at "the office" with Mr. S. Life does go on, and I am hoping these moments increase.

I wrote this on Tuesday, trying to get myself out of the beta taking grump I was in. This poem is a bit more experimental, in voice and form. I questioned posting it(and any of them, actually, as I hope to someday get some version of them published) but having read some other people's blogs, these past couple of days, and thought "yes, that is how I feel, thank you" I have gained the courage to keep posting my raw work.



The unchangeable air

I.
Night-chilled morning air
over cold marble will always be
that morning in Athens
rushing towards the ferry,

just as afternoon sun, fall-golden
will always be myself, walking alone
by the pond that first year of college
sun through tall pines, with a slight mist.

Memory distilled by time,
how places are distinct in geography and surrounding,
but for the air; its texture, glow and touch, mimic of a lost moment.

For how long will grief tinge
this, my favorite season’s light?

This is not the time of loss, it cannot be.
it is the time of harvest, of friends
gathered by tables. Stands of food
a spill of bounty. We shed our coverings
but keep them close.

We know the cold is coming
and we treasure each day it does not
arrive. Stuff ourselves full
of golden light, of still green trees.
Days of bare arms and squinted eyes.
Is the measure of joy greater for what can be lost?

Am I still that woman, rushing to the ferry?
Lonely, hopeful- following that week’s friend.
Back weighted with just three items of clothing,
water, a notebook, guidebook, camera and paint.

Am I also that girl by the pond, alone, but content
with a wealth of community building around her?

II.
Remember them both, but regret that presently
each day will find you are a new person. Someone who looks
back on that old, yesterday self with a fond nostalgia.

That simple happiness. Those small worries. How little she knew
of what can be lost.

Don’t expect to be recognized, these days. Look in the mirror
and expect bruises, new lines. Your face is almost familiar,
but so very still. Why so still? Where has the dance gone,
the minute joys?

III.
That morning you walked into the garden and the sun glowed clear on the milkweed and trumpet vine, how the bees, moths and butterflies floated up, and you thought “finally, it is all perfect” and looked at all that your hands had placed in the earth, and all that the sun, rain and air had changed. All you had done was place seeds and seedlings, small plans. Every planting, it felt that day, for this exact moment of happiness. The tomatoes in their second flowering, the okra reaching upwards, the sunflowers wild by the driveway, fallen, but propped. Glowing. Finally arriving in the moment you had longed for, for almost three years. “It is all beginning,” you felt. But, it wasn’t continuing—that is the hidden part, the shadow secret, cold and damp beneath the overgrown bush. Mouse bones and bird beaks, uprooted discard of weed, worm and grub.

Would you want that memory gone, now, in your present grief?

“Yes,” she says, “those memories hurt most of all, that woman-wife almost-mother. All her measurings of hope. The beautiful sun and golden air. They are the same. But I am not. That happiness gone, that light continuing, the hours go by, re-form me over and over. Painful cellular growth.”

IV.
Blood then dryness then blood.
Shed, erase, dissipate. Glass between me and everyone I know. Removal,
separation. The betraying light, beautiful and untouchable,
unchangeable. I shut my eyes, but sun seeps through,
paints my eyelids red. Too much red, I expect to see it everywhere,
worry that I smudge each place with my body’s leavings. What I don’t say,
the unacceptable proof.

messy

we spent the weekend away at a rainy/grey poetry festival. Today is 2 weeks since we lost the baby. I have hours of almost ok-ness, and then overwhelming sadness.

Here is today's poem:



summer’s leavings

the flour is webbed and so is the almond meal
cayenne reveals one wriggling worm, dropped
into the pan of sizzling potatoes and removed
with a quick flick of the fingernail

the last tomatoes are rotting in the fridge
pressed close to clear drawers, they soften and sour
the yogurt has molded a green airy moss

crickets gather in corners
in each room’s pretend night,
sing and mate
moths dot the doors of the cupboard
make the inside air a wild thing
they die in grey smears and dust
we no longer feel guilty, routinely
wash our fingers clear and return to our day

the new fridge leaks water, a stream
every other day that follows the slant
of our sloped floor, small breaks
in the screen allow mosquitoes and flies in
we tape the mistakes we find, and know
there are others, unseen

and so our house creaks back to a wooded
field, though we struggle, live with daily removal
sweep cricket eggs from the corner, discard the box of nuts

honey grows golden in the jar, crystal edged
we freeze everything we remember to
and put faith in sealed jars that sometimes work

I take down the pictures of what was growing
for a time, in me, from you
I don’t know where to put them
leave only that photo of the two of us
with that hope between us, in our eyes and slight smiles

some days, I hate that picture, though we are almost beautiful
in that happy time, under trees
with family, unseen, all around us

all the flowering herbs of summer
make a muddy water in their jar, a swampy thing

the zucchini rots at one end, I cut the mold away
grate the still firm middle
scoop flour from the middle and examine for worms
also the meal, and the sugar
eyes search for each invader
praise the fresh egg and the untainted vanilla
take spoon, measure and stir

wait some time, let the oven do its one job
containment and release, the rush of flame
of the heated air, the alchemy of our everyday lives
ignore the neglected plant for one more day
let it go, leaves dropped more than leaves held

we are losing it all, I feel right now, but make something anyway
today’s small gift of muffins, spiced as I know you like them
what I can stir together from summer’s leavings

stupid sunny weather

I am writing a lot, a couple of stories, and some poems. It is helping me get through this. My students are writing form poems this week, so I decided to write a loss sonnet. Here it is, fresh from being written this morning...

Changeless Days

Since it happened, only days of bright sun
warm air, squint eyes to the sky of high blue.
I measure the hours towards sleep, one two, one two.
Stay close to my house, avoid everyone.
When I allow myself, I wish it were undone,
I want life as it was before, happiness true.
Those flowers glowing on my fence rail glue
this season in my mind, our hopes undone.

It happened on a day we planned to celebrate
and though I held my body tight,
hot then cold, there was nothing I could do.
I prayed those longs hours until dawn, awake.
Now I fear the scene-filled night
where each dream replays us losing, dear child, you.