Cat in My Lap

Cat in my lap
Baby in my belly

Rain in the trees
Tomatoes in the ground

There will come a time
when you need all my
attention, baby, even
more than the tomatoes.

But this morning we sit
breathing in unison,
quiet and content.

"Why so desolate?" I want the earthworms to ask me

Desolate despite
the company of crickets spiders, cicadas,
thousands of earthworms busily plowing beneath the new grass.

The light rains beckon them upward to take long drinks.
I can tell they are laughing together and generally making merry
at a hundred parties for which I've received no invitation nor hope of one.
Like a king in his castle with not one friend nearby,
surveying the busy populace below, he sighs.

I recognize the rain, invite it as close as the porch roof,
and we are company for each other.

Why desolate, why lonely, God?
When your Spirit ministers close by. Just here, even beside me.

Essentials

What makes sense to me now is being close to you

with all of me,

no reservations
nor walls
nor unforgiveness
nor bitterness
for what you have left unsaid
nor what I have failed to tell you;

we bring just what we have in ourselves,
the essential that begs nothing more than
to be encircled, to encircle—
to be encircled, to encircle—
to climb together, and to rest.

So Little Contained in So Little

I haven't been in touch because I haven't been in touch. I have been in so much contact: with car horns and taxis, expectations and fears, airplanes and security lines. I have not touched ground except when I'm with a few—Jesus, Jake, Carmen, my mom... everyone else is so close, clambering... I am afraid I will get nothing done if I spend a night emailing here and there, because an email gets a response, then we pull out our calendars, and meet and connect, and plan to do it all again at the end...

...and it all feels like hemorrhaging.

I have a little to give, I feel, and I am desperately collecting rocks on the edge of this river, in hopes of creating a reservoir of time, place, things. I cannot. Slow it all down.
I cannot

go back and describe each weekend with Jake        seeing herons on a river
swimming in the quarry to escape the heat
churning ice cream          driving through the greenest places the country has to offer
touching those places
letting it rain
and waiting to catch breath on a mountaintop in Morocco          in West Virginia
hitching a ride
watching the sunset spill pink over a silver river before the blankets were pulled down and the heat settled into the stones' accumulated hearts

and we slept there, in a tent on the ground          mosquitoes without,
the only monsters,         and Time,
to be reckoned with if they got inside to us.

Held close. Closer. Each stone.

Driving to you through the worst storm of my life, the clouds a watercolor above, and gathering from below.
At the end of it all—were your arms around me.

Is gratitude ever a product of fear? I wonder if it can go on, and know what I don't know. Love in its wisdom goes on giving what it has today, hoping its hope and loving its love.

Love, can you understand? Does it matter? Since I will be by your side in the morning.

I have fought myself: my pride and my reticence to be known, my jealousy of moments you had without me—no rewriting allowed—things God himself can't change that happened because they happened.

Oh, Love. Our all is so little contained in so little.

Clothes and Glory

Worthy of my glory uncovered

Holy

Have we

once again

missed the mark?

Defiled the ark. Oh, God.

White Card

It was mine the moment my Mom chose my Dad.

Families go way back.
Sharing this same faith (at
least it looks that way) (at
least that's what you said then).

Decisions made in childhood
trickle down through my hometown.
You didn't see me at the country club,
but, sure.

I can shout about the power that sours on
color on cue at the view of a brother
approaching as you clutch your Coach.
Sure, but

no routine traffic stop
will look like a butcher shop when

my white skin absolves me of my minor violations.
Without
hesitation
let off with a warning in pen that only writes in white.

Recitation

Assignment: Memorize and recite 20 lines of a poem; use appropriate pace, tone, gestures; connect with your audience. You have one week, ready, Go!

As I assigned it, I knew I would be terrified if I were they, so I decided to do it myself. Always model what you want your students to do and be.

I stood in front of the class as if it were the first day I had ever stood in front of a class instead of the 3,000th. My hands shook, and my voice caught in my throat. I was momentarily Anne Shirley when she stood before all of her friends of Avonlea at the White Sands Hotel, prepared to recite "The Highwayman," while being seized with fear.

It's still a fresh feeling, the muscles and everything in me saying that it is a bad idea to speak words not my own. Then, to speak with spark is even more impossible. What evolutionary trait resulted in this fear? What am I preserving when I fear performance?

But then I began. Why was my voice suddenly so small? It was a hollow, tin whisper at the bottom of a well. I tried to draw myself up, speak from the diaphragm, banish signs of fear. All of that is rather a lot to do at once.

I recited Emily Dickinson's "Because I could not stop for Death" to a group of 11th-graders. I knew the poem cold, and still I floundered. It almost undid me. I continued to shake for minutes afterward, still teaching. I have no idea what it is about reciting something I have memorized. When my students ask me why I am not an actor, I know that this is why. 

In Review

Such a blurry, final video call—

the clatter of dishes and patrons around you—

your face looks so disappointed to see just me, the same me,

after all.

Where You Lost Me

I pass you walking on Stadium Street.
Your holler dehumanizes you to me,
Me to you,
And I wonder what you would do

If I turned around and took you seriously:

"You don't want a girl like me, who'd expect equality. What would you do with that independent streak? We'd end up broken down and angry when I'd expect you to help; expect honesty. And you'll lose me when you demean some lady on the street. Do you see where you lost me?

"How are there so damn many of you?
Who do you go home to?"

The Cure for Long-Distance Heartache

When I feel sad that we're apart
for months at a time,
I type in "poetry long distance relationship"
and read of hearts rent
long before mine:

The moon above distant lovers,
the same moon, the very same.
The seas between two hearts;
carrying the whisper of her first name. Or her surname.
Or whatever.

Oh, dear...
The minutes disappear
when I read of their despair.
My loneliness subsides in tears
of laughter.

Troubled Sleep

Remind me what you say about peace

and all will be well.

Remind me what you say about fear

and all will be well.

Remind me what you say about never leaving

and all will be well.

Give rest to those you love. 

There's this sweet sea breeze over the hill that pastures simpler beasts. 

Today I found myself wishing I could join them there. 

Give rest to those you love.

It would be trudging on if not for love.

It would be entirely will that trained my course, 

but it's yours.

Give rest to those you love.

Ah, it's these sweet smiles of discovery. 

Ah, it's those broken hearts that have begun to know too much. 

Give rest to those you love.

Everyday Lesson Planning With Miss McKalips

7:15 AM

I walk into the classroom. Chairs are on desks; the cleaning lady has been through, and the room is ready. She has faith that what we do in here is important, and she works to make our space worth learning in every day.

I know we have to learn something today, but we need to start a new unit. What was our last unit about? Short stories. The test was yesterday. I stayed up late grading them, and I went to bed telling myself I would figure something out in the morning. Here I am. It is morning. What do I teach?

I go to the curriculum map. I'm not ready for any of these units. Okay, I'm good at teaching writing: I'll teach a paper. Whooaaaaa... Am I ready to grade 53 seventh-grade papers when it's so close to the end of the quarter? When is it ever convenient to teach writing?

I open up a book by one of my favorite (one of my only) writing pedagogy authors. I look at where he begins, and how much work he pours into every paper, every lesson. What? Every time he teaches Polonius' speech in Hamlet, he does this incredible amount of studying. At night. After he's left school, he reads the act again, reads his research again, listens to the play on his way to work. I want to kill him. I will never be able to do that. I can't do this.

7:40 AM.

What am I going to teach today?

7:45 AM.

Hall duty. Good thing I have first period planning to think through this.

8:05 AM.

What am I going to teach today? It's a really good thing I haven't been called to cover anyone's class.

8:10 AM.

Forget teaching writing today. Take that book home and read it, and do it all perfectly the first time; but the first time won't be today. Actually, no, just throw that book into one of these drawers with other people's perfect ideas.

8:20 AM.

Open the textbook and figure out what is next. Poetry. Oh my gosh. I love poetry.

8:30 AM.

We can't just read poems on day one! How are we going to read them!? What will this unit even be about?

8:40 AM.

The students come in ten minutes! FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW.

8:45 AM.

Okay. I'm going to make a decision. Decision made. We'll make a chart on the board of different kinds of art. And then we'll choose one kind of art, and talk about what the different tools are that that artist uses. I'm only barely qualified to talk about the art of painting... good enough: we'll talk about the tools a painter uses. Then we'll talk about how a poet is an artist, and list off the tools a poet can use. We'll create a vocabulary list that way, and we'll be sure to include rhythm, rhyme, allusion, form, stanza, assonance, alliteration...

8:50 AM. [Bell]

Guess that'll work. [Open the door. Kids come in.]

With All Due Respect to Billy Collins

This poem is a response to Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry." 

---

I know a poem has died when I have to dissect it
to show my students how it used to work.

Gently I make my incision,
pull the skin apart,
reveal the muscle and tissue.

The class is somewhat horrified
as I remove each organ for their inspection,
lining these up like conquered chess pieces.

They fall back to sleep as I try to explain
that once, not very long ago in the language,
this creature was alive.

I replace each part and posit a theory on
how the complete organism may have functioned,
even how it may have interacted with others
in its day.

It is no use, by then.
Their phones are in their hands
or on their minds.

Oh hell, so is mine.

We all reach for our pockets
a minute before we should,
eager to know if anyone loves us.

When I Love You

Don't worry, Little Heart. I love you even in the dark.

I love you in the light of day,
safely tucked into the crowd.
I love you in the summer's shade,
when breezes run along the ground.

I love you as the clouds grow big,
brooding and alive with rain.
I love you when the results are rigged,
contempt's cup full, its dregs you drain.

I love you when you're sick and sleeping,
or when you're numb from grief's hard blow.
I love you when you're lost, and it's raining,
surrounded by country not your own.

I love you when you don't remember home.

I love you when the electric's dead,
the bulbs are blown,
the house is cold.

I love you while the stiff wind blows,
when you feel useless and alone:
when you watch too much TV, and make bad decisions about what to eat, and hate yourself for it all day long, dreading the hard work that hangs over your head.

I love you, Little, Feeble Heart.
I love you even in the dark.

God, what will you do with cities?

Leave the dirt.
In it grows
our only hope
to live again.

Pavements crack.
Buildings fall.
Rain and wind
shall do their work.

Have no fear
of all we build;
even evil
will have its day—

invasive weed
soon stripped away—
trees shall grow in its place.

---

I walk through this brown city, and think how lovely it could be if only we would leave it alone to grow some green. If only we would leave the dirt to build up on the sidewalks, filling up crevices: little greens would shoot up, and slowly tear the asphalt apart. In a few years, the city would be unidentifiable, and we would have a real place to live. 

Forgive me. I know I can't have it both ways. It's just, we seem to ruin all we touch; instead of guiding and stewarding the earth, we try to conquer it, as if we hate it instead of loving it. 

All cities do not have to be "a paralysis" a la James Joyce. Moroccan designers, builders, craftspeople, rich people, green-loving humans with souls who haven't known peace: BUILD US A PARK IN CASABLANCA.

Time Isn't Money

You can't pay time back.
It's over.
But you can give it as a gift.

No one can take it from you.
Not really.
You have all of it,
whether you want it or not.
To try to forget
is sorrow untold.

Maybe time is a river.
Flowing forward,
moving molecule-lives along.

Maybe time is a suitcase.
Try to fit everything in.
Then you check the bag,
the airline loses it,
and you forget what you packed.

Groundhog Mother

Groundhog mother
I'm sorry about your baby
I'm ashamed and sorry
You fled at the sound of the engine;
I remember my relief.
But your baby was stuck in a crevice above the wheel well.

Minutes later, a thud under my tire, and a baby animal
striping a parking space and dying.

I'm so sorry.

I think it is best that you remain afraid of me and all my kind.
We - I - won't slow down. I'm not even sure I could, now, if I wished to.

You are a soft-bellied earth citizen - I am a war machine.
I will tell you your son died doing his service.
But I know it is because I would only make myself bigger, better, bigger, better, endlessly marching on.

You will do well to stay simple,
digging holes, not speaking the language of death - knowing by heart the language of suffering.
I am the war machine.

Dear Keats

You say touch has a memory.
How to exorcise it?
You think on a good many things.
Sit and think. Sit and think.
How, do tell me, do I move on on on
On on on
And still think myself capable of loving ever?

Love was not a game to me,
Or was it? Of course not, my mouth tells me:
nothing tastes sweet.
Only the bitter things draw me,
and people not at all.

Beer, and shoveling this unbelievable mass of
snow that has graciously transported me
from my home planet to one resembling Hoth.
And all its beasts are in my head
as I shovel on on on on on
the pile topples.

I miss you, dear. And the idea of you, and
your hand on my back, your shoulders
such a sweet place to rest my head.
Your slow kiss on top of my hair, the
kind of kiss reserved for babies,
whose heads need kissing, you know.

Winter Always Seems to be Looming

Mid-July, a leaf falls:
the card house crumbles;

Lothlorien mourns.

August sighs in green.
September breathes in gold.
October laughs a rusty red.
Obediently, the year grows old.

November throws one last charade
and haze before its grizzled gray
requires of me that I must resolve
to face the fading days.

December dies in drab and black,
friends leave for their cold evening's sleep.

In a firelit flicker, the dawn arrives,

but morning offers no reprieve.

On occasions during the three
months of December,
a sun setting on white snows
helps me to remember

light, with life and inward feeling,
will explicate itself in rays and boughs--

for it does not freeze, 

though the sap runs slow.

---

These were my title ideas:

Summer Never Comes Cheap

Color Wheel of the Living Year

Wait For the Hope in the Last Lines

If Winter Is Going to Be There, I Can't Come to the Party

Writing About Winter, In Hopes It Will Be Satisfied

The Latter Half of the Year in a Temperate Zone 

Resolving to Accept Winter as One Might Accept a Difficult But Rich Houseguest

When A Poet Hates Being Cold, It's Just As You Might Expect

If You Dream of a White Christmas, Please Keep it to Yourself

3 Prayers: Desert, Ocean, Home

I dream of the desert

where winds sun stone

Red orange yellow--

blue purple black.

I dream of the desert

where breath catches slow

round swirls on the ground

every touch pays water of its own.

The desert does not dream of me

it knows what I can’t know,

and doesn’t care that I will never

be carefree indifferent windblown.

---

You are unmoved by me

unchanged by me

in you I see

my Creator

---

The cat is bathing herself

again.

Her snuffly breaths anchor me

with a sense of belonging:

this is right, to be at home of an evening,

cooking something, playing something,

straightening here and there,

and finally turning off lights, and bowing

face down, to say "thank you, God. Won't

you bring such security to the whole world?"

"God, may the young women have a moment to stop and think,

a space to breathe in.

"May the young men have a purpose they can believe in that

will earn their self-respect.

"May the old ones have families.

"May the young ones have dreams.

"May all have the food they need.

"Amen."