The earth clenches
frozen lumps of soil
even the big trees look brittle
like stick drawings.
Late in the morning
the grass sweats
it is not warm
but it is no longer so cold
as to hollow us out
a stream of hunchbacks weaving
the fastest path
to a door.
It is not winter yet
we are only being tested
reminded
the ice will come
and we will wish
for the charity
of rain.
She is five
and the world makes
perfect sense.
All things are servants
to her curiosity,
adults are her
audience.
We secretly covet
her approval
which she dispenses
and withholds
with alarming
poise.
She pulls me aside
she has composed a song
on the piano
a recital
can I gather the adults
now.
She plays it for me quickly
the high notes
she tells me afterwards
are when the girl loses her favourite toy
the low notes
are when she is eaten
by a large and angry
dog.
I tell her it is wonderful
very dramatic
perhaps she could consider
telling the audience the story
before she plays.
But it would ruin
the surprise.
She walks off
to gather the adults
herself
and I can almost taste
my fall
from grace.
I always thought gardening
was a slow lumber
in the dirt
a hobby for old
clump-shaped people
a patient
repetitive
toil.
I am not to blame.
It was given the wrong name
like calling a shark
a fish.
Gardening
has nothing to do
with gardens.
It is sleight of hand
illusion, hot wet
underground alchemy
where secrets are whispered
to wisps of seeds
shocking
them into bouquets.
A cold
is not cold
at all.
It’s like overcooked stew:
hot and dank.
My tongue feels like I have licked
a hundred shirts,
my nose is heavy,
my head floppy and dim.
I am not suffering
I am just temporarily
a wretched version
of myself.
Next time I see you
I plan to be brave
and risk the bumpiness
of interesting conversation.
You’ve known me for so long
you think of me like
your knees:
same but older.
But I am not a part of you;
I am not even the girl
from your memories.
I am way
over here now.
And I am guilty too.
I hold the old story of you
like an egg,
afraid to break
the sameness
and scavenge your new life
with wonder.
Next time I see you
I want to see
you.
I want an earthquake of emotion
to shatter our dusty past
and in the cracks beneath us
let my curiosity about you
bloom a hundred hungry questions
like dandelions:
fresh, bright and alive.
Rushing home,
I’m late.
I punch at the radio
but the static gets louder.
At the fourth red light,
I stuff a ginger snap into my mouth
and I remember
that I am a poet,
a poet running late
and my baby is screaming to be fed.
Are you kidding me?
Another red light
and I wonder if babies hold grudges
but I am still
a poet.
And then I remember
to notice
that ginger snaps
taste like fire
dancing on my tongue.
It reminds me of the time
I made my mother tea on her birthday
out of lemonade and tobasco.
I was six
and she kissed both of my cheeks
and drank the whole pot.
Poetry,
I realize,
with a long loose breath,
as my baby cries louder
from the backseat,
is one half
the word
“try.”
If the voice in your head is not kind,
remember that it’s only
trying to help.
It thinks it can protect you
by warning of all the things
that could go wrong,
of not letting you get too happy
in case things don’t work out.
It’s a kind old woman
trying to sell you something
you don’t need.
Don’t buy what she’s selling,
but don’t slam the door
in her face.
She cares for you,
in her strange old way.
So smile at her,
and thank her for her concern,
but explain that you don’t need
what she has to offer.
She will knock again,
but eventually,
she will get the point.
And in the new quiet,
fill it with a voice
as soft and hopeful
as if you were asked
by the young part of a plant
that’s almost ready to flower
“should I try to grow”
and your voice
echoes back every time,
“oh, sweetie,
you’re going to be great.”
I bought your book years ago,
all 400 pages of it.
The Only Baby Book You’ll Ever Need.
You had me at the title.
A one-stop resource.
A new parent’s guide to everything.
It was so comforting,
every possible concern neatly indexed
alphabetically at the back,
a chapter-by-chapter guide
to solving all my baby’s problems.
But where’s the sequel?
You helped me with diaper rash,
swaddling and teething.
We potty trained without much trouble,
and I give you a lot of the credit.
But who advised you
that parents of school-age children
have it all figured out?
You dedicated seven pages to gas bubbles
but I can’t massage away
this pain of losing his best friend,
I can’t burp him and make this knot
of sadness disappear.
I assure you there’s a market
for a follow-up,
for chapters on self-esteem
screen time
and slamming doors.
Even if the answer
on every page
is to empathize and then
let them go,
these days I just need
the comfort of a guide,
a giant book
a bold promise
that this is how
it’s done.
She kept her hair long
even into her nineties,
like curtains parted
around the rambunctious
stage of her face.
While her body grew thin
and curled inward
“like a pistachio shell,”
her eyes never aged
and she laughed often,
loud and deep
as though her joy started
way down inside her.
We knew she was dying
because she told us,
and then she winked,
which is what she always did
when she said grown-up things.
She gave all the kids
trinkets that week,
little objects from her home,
and she told us stories about them,
like mine, a little tin box,
that she said was magic
and could fit all my memories.
I told her I’d put this memory in straight away,
and I tried not to cry,
and then she whispered,
with her eyes wide and sparkly,
“As long as one person remembers you,
it’s not over,”
and so many years later,
as I go back to that tin box
for her wisdom,
I realize she was right.
You want me to be near you all the time
as though I am a warm blanket
that makes you snacks.
You want to be near me when I’m working
or reading or having a pee.
You want me to listen to your dreams
and see all your drawings
and watch you make up dances
as though me witnessing you
is the punctuation that makes
the scenes of your life complete.
Do you see me escaping sometimes
slipping away
pretending to take calls
just to be alone?
And when the earth tilts one day
and you are just a few years older
escaping me
slipping away
when you take another call
will I watch your back
and wonder
for the first time
if you are beginning
to pretend
the same way.
