Samantha’s Daily Poem
The bully in the bank
He is so angry
it is making him sweat
pacing the bank
yelling into
his cell phone.
There is a forceful intimacy
to this much rage
as though he has undressed
and is flashing us
making us look.
I want to protect
the stranger
on the other end
of the phone
from the metallic slap
of his words.
But I am afraid of bullies
the tautness of their tempers
like a shark or a bear
they swallow the space
for reason.
So I let him spin
himself out
like a tired tornado
leaving us
strangers
bonded by discomfort
none of us
brave enough
to find a voice
that is strong
without being
loud.
Ode to cherry blossoms
Fat fists
of petals
punch
the sky
with delight.
Outrageously
optimistic
tree
you defend
the right
to frolic.
You brave the cold
all winter
for your one chance
to remind us
that happiness
is always
within reach
waiting
for a chance
to bloom.
The other purse
This Mother’s Day
I gave my mother
a purse
her favourite colour
olive green
hip
eco-friendly
expensive.
She liked it
I think
she hugged me
and said it
was perfect.
But I wonder if
she was thinking
of the other purse
a Mother’s Day
thirty years ago
made of paper
and inside
a paper comb
carefully cut with scissors
a paper lipstick
red with crayon wax
a paper wallet
filled with paper money
all thousand dollar bills
even paper pens
made of rolled up paper
taped together into long tubes
that didn’t look at all
like pens.
For months afterwards
every morning
I would hand her
the paper purse
as she left for work
her pockets hiding
the bare essentials:
keys
credit card
a real lipstick.
And each morning
she would hug me
thank me
and tell me
it was perfect.
You have my permission
You have my permission
to agitate me
startle me awake
lure me to strange places
to erode my patterned ruts.
I have chosen you
to prop up
my promise
to grow.
This is an earned love
much bigger than applause and kisses:
it is a trust that
you know a darkness in me
that I cannot see.
It is a desire
to be guided
to my insides.
It is surrender,
thrilling
and safe.
Ravens
His face looks like he slept
on gravel and his clothes
are stiff with dirt.
His eyes are swollen sockets,
their blur is a daily ritual
to erase the horrors
of his youth.
A concrete landscape
a maze with no exit
his ancestors couldn’t find him
if they tried.
They are morsels of history
sheathed in stories
of ravens.
I give him the change
in my pocket and wonder:
where are the ravens now?
Won’t you return
from your myths
and rescue your men?
They lay in heaps
and it is your wings
that must hoist them up
and remind them
how it feels
to stand tall again.
