Samantha’s Daily Poem
The injustice of not being allowed on the roof
Today you welded your being
into a molten rod of anguish
unable to accept
you were not allowed
to follow your dad
up the ladder to the roof
which quickly extended
to your refusal to accept anything
such as water
or that your Auntie Charley’s name
begins with “c”
but like any storm
the clouds move on
and your mood is just a story
you tell me on our way
to feed the ducks
you tell the part about the boots
the mud and the carpet
and you ask me to tell the part
about how I wiped your nose
on your shirt and told you
the neighbour’s cat
was on your side
then when we’re all out of bread
and the ducks have flown
to the other side of the lake
I suggest we go to Bandida’s for a bite
you ask me
where is Bandida’s, mama
I tell you it’s on Commercial Drive
and you look up at me
like a benevolent old monk
who has never raised his voice
and you say
Commercial Drive
that sounds nice.
The skin of the moon
Poetry is looking at the same old chair
only you find your eyes
have become microscopes
and what posed as wood for so long
is corn on the cob
and also the skin of the moon
which makes you wonder
about your husband
so you look at him too
and sure enough
there he stands
soft and foreign
how have you never noticed
the way his dimples open and shut
like they are telling their own story
you reach out
like you would a piece of fruit
with a curious and hungry touch.
The colour of engagement
A lot can be said about me
that I see people I know
on the street
and my first thought
is to stand very slim
behind a lamp post and hope
they don’t see me
which you would never guess
after they do spot me
and the conversation sprouts
like flowers in the air
and I don’t mean silly flowers either
but the gorgeous kind
like zinnias and marigolds
as we ask each other
romantic things
like couldn’t you write for days
about that crow over there
greedy and aloof
at the same time
yet I don’t seem to learn
that it is worth it
for the next time
I am just as keen
to avoid the colour
of engagement
and it probably won’t be
but I wouldn’t mind
if it came up at my funeral
that I had been spotted
trying to hide from life
the people who loved me
eating from small plates
remembering the patchwork of me
wondering at why I seemed
afraid to play.
Nine days old
I hold my friend’s new baby
who sleeps right through
freeze-dancing and piñatas
at his sister’s birthday party
all the five-year-olds
run around like race cars
they do not look twice
at this wisp of a boy
his skin is like an eyelid
I can see everything moving
underneath the gauziness of him
his heart bounces
his veins shuffle blood
back and forth
he smiles in his sleep
his wrinkled fist
punches absent-mindedly
at the sky
the kids stampede past us again
on their way upstairs
for the Easter Egg hunt
I cover his little ears
but he hasn’t paid attention
to any of it
I realize that nothing can compare
to what he has just come through
all the milk and the air
and the bright thrust of life
perhaps we too
would let the elephants
run past us
if God herself
had just walked in
and answered it all.
My creativity ran away from home
I go deep
but all I find
is the old muffin
I ate yesterday
for dinner
I try to coax it back
like I do with my son
when I want him to wear
his sweater vest
but I am in a rush
and it runs the other way
I yell
and it yells back
I start anyway
and it is like those dreams
when you cannot
work your hands
I learn again
how I am so much flesh
draped over a tiny stranger
who comes and goes as it likes
without it
I am unlit
I go to sleep early
lying on my back
I feel the pinch
of my need
I do the only thing left to do
I think sweet thoughts
trying to lure back the bee.
