Samantha’s Daily Poem
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.
Home
You believe everything has a home
like the itsy bitsy spider
who lives behind my ear
(though I try not to think about it)
and your pee
which you told me yesterday
gets flushed home
where it opens the door
and makes pasta for all its friends
which is why
when you asked me
about the man who sleeps
by the Safeway
and I told you he doesn’t
have a home
you looked so serious
but where is his mama
I wondered if the man
asks himself
the same question
but before I could think
of what to say
you pointed out
a car just like Grandpa’s
and it wasn’t until later
just before bed
that you asked me
if I thought that man
would fit inside the fort
you just made
of pillows.
Answers
The year I went to Sunday School
because they gave out chocolate bars
a girl told me that clouds
were God’s thoughts floating in the sky
and since nobody had told me
about condensed water vapour
it sounded reasonable to me
so I spent hours
staring upwards
wondering why God
was thinking about rabbits
or monsters
with gauzy claws
and one clear blue day
I worried God
was giving us the silent treatment
or maybe he had fallen
into a coma
which makes me wonder
about the whimsy
in the answers
I paste to my son’s mind
I have told him the wind
blows secrets
but maybe the magic
is in the wind itself
the way the sun
heats our planet’s lumpy bones
in different ways
making the invisible rise
spin and blow.
Ode to Jason Collins
We all thought nothing could scare you
from seven feet high
you made it your job
to look invincible
while inside you
stood a ghost
your true self
a collision with despair
every night
waking you up
clanging his chains
and now you’ve turned
inside out
the ghost has not been set free
it’s better than that
there is no ghost anymore
only one imposing man
who will stand on the court again
and we will all stare at you
not thinking about what you are
but asking ourselves
how can we be more brave
how can we be more true.
