Little Rituals

I don't remember exactly the events surrounding this poem below, or what was happening in my life at the time I wrote it.  I don't remember precise sentiments.  I do, however, remember the idea of very much wanting to be reminded over and over about the moments in life that remind me that I am as human as can be and that in the midst of monotony, there is variation.  In the everydayness of detail, there is ritual that will one day make us nostalgic, and I am finding that 'one day' isn't so long off.  In the poem I wanted to convey the surprise and shock of something real and living moving against my palm in total desperation and desire to fill its purpose. Even when that purpose seems small and insignificant. The repetition and constancy of something like a sand crab is comforting and a little bit scary to me.  Scary in that I suddenly see my life as a series of movements that are simple and still difficult for me, and comforting in that my movement is constant, and at the end of the day, makes me happy.

I've read the books I was told to read on putting Remy to bed, which I am glad I read them, and honestly, I'm pretty glad some nights when he finally does go to sleep and I get a little time to mosey about on my own.  Lately though, I've been putting the schedules and rules aside and I, or Carl, have been rocking him to sleep, until he's completely asleep.  Even if the books tell me not to.  For me, it is one of the feelings that gently reminds me that I am alive and that my purpose, however small seeming and insignificant, is pretty great. It is one of the times when I have to stop completely.  I rock back and forth in a dark room and everything is sound.  Repetition has become a friend. I find peace in knowing it will all happen again soon. Instinct seems more important to me now.  I think we all have those moments and tasks that we do because we do. But sometimes it is the ones we are doing like crazy without stopping to wonder why, that are the most beautiful when we take a moment to think about them.  

Sand crabs—

round as my thumbnail,

swashed from that deep sea, 

with each wave washed up. 

Kneeling on the shore,

I lean over dozens of tiny holes

where bubbles rise and dome on the surface and sunlight refracts every prayer.

Delivered and already disappearing.

I plung my hands into wet sands.

We race.

Sand crabs

downward

burrow.

And I, all I want

is to pull up a handful of earth

and feel the frantic movements

against my palm.

 (Did anyone else did for sand crabs?  If not, they are pebble sized little crabs that bury themselves in the sand when a wave comes up on shore.)

I wrote a mother's day poem

A Prayer

—is how your body began.

A thought I had at the beach in Oregon,

while three children ran across damp sand.

The grey sky held a red kite,

the seagulls were particularly white.

The clouds—pillows I could turn

my head up to, and dream—

those voices, they were my children.

No, no—your body was yet begun,

spinning deep inside,

whirring,

a delicate machine,

like a butterfly, ready to take flight.

i can't believe i am doing this. but a amy scott and i were talking about bravery. these are a couple of my poems.

A First Step Towards Loss
The first time I know summer

My parents tell me to get back in bed. I am six. I stand at the blinds without moving slats:
watch neighborhood kids run cat-footed in fields and dusk. Sun setting silhouettes
christened in purple shadow and wet, wet, wet, sprinklers click on lawns.
orange sky yawns—slow as counting stars. Elephant light through lazy white drapes,
darkness is coming, first firefly night.


(this is the one i wrote that day that i didn't go to class)



Heirloom

I nearly fused the gold band to my middle finger.
When I spilled the chemicals.
There was a moment of panic,
Then a sting of courage
When I saw the tender white
Ring of puffy skin underneath.