Samantha’s Daily Poem
Ignite
Sometimes he looks at me
like we just met
and he wonders
if it will always
be this good
and I want to tell him
thank you
but not in words
I want to button myself up
inside the wet room of his heart
and press the hushed bigness
of my gratitude
into its soft walls
gratitude
for seeing the light
that ignites
my plainest self
the way I imagine
the beetle feels
about the moon
as it hoists itself up
in the thick dark sky
collapsing the day
and transforming him from a dull thing
crawling along the lumpy earth
into a wink of light
finally
he is a firefly again
lit up by the moon
releasing his luminous secret
to the world again.
Your dad’s version of Humpty Dumpty’s backstory
You lay in the dark
your eyes open
even though we have tried
all our tricks
to get you to sleep
you have begged so hard
to watch Humpty on youtube
that you are not a body anymore
but a writhing sack of outrage
exhausted
your dad stares
at the same spot on the ceiling
and gives you his version
of Humpty Dumpty’s backstory
about the two brothers
nobody talks about
how Darryl was the athletic one
who should have been on the wall
about Harold
who ironically
sold insurance
how Mr. and Mrs. Dumpty
didn’t make it
drifting apart
unable to cope with the grief
both quietly taking to the drink
I don’t know when
it was that you drifted off
but when you woke up
twelve hours later
you were the happiest
you’ve been in weeks
like a pin had popped
an anxiety that had been swelling
in your head
as though finally so much
had been answered.
When I get little
We keep telling you
about the things you can do
when you grow up
and today you had a few things
in store for me too
when I get little
like how you will help me
into your car seat
and teach me to count
to really big
at first I marveled
at your circle of life
then I realized how mighty
it must feel
to imagine you finally
in charge of me
but as you went on
I could have wept
for how you pictured
all the ways
you would soothe me
in our big jagged world.
What birds think of airplanes
We wake up and listen
as the sun climbs
over our windowsill
and the park erupts with birds
the gossipy honk
of the seagull
the wise gurgle
of the pigeon
the nag
of the crow
I ask my son
what he thinks they are saying
they’re talking about airplanes
he says with a look
that implies
he thinks I should know this
and just then
one rumbles over our roof
and I think he’s probably right
all those birds
wondering what makes
their metal friend so angry
that he roars
whenever he flies by.
You don’t write poems
Writing poetry is setting
your mind on fire
so that even the stubborn
words flee
you see
you don’t write poems
they are there all along
you smoke
them out.
