Some look down their noses at us and comment.
“You’re so young! Why are you married?”
Us whole is hard work. It’s too easy to fall apart.
A lot of it is scheduling but we’ve had a year of practice.
I have become adjusted to being alone
every third day. Silence in this big house is broken by
echoes of the dogs barking against the tile downstairs
or Charlie the cat meowing loudly to himself at two am.
The hum of the ceiling fan over the bed sings me to sleep.
I never thought I would be comfortable
with entire days of quiet or solitude. But I am now.
No one had to tell me that marriage is talking.
Talking to you about money, the pets, the house, children.
“Be sure to leave things outside the marriage at the doorstep.”
I think we’re good at that. Broken homes can produce good matches.
Which groceries are more important to buy
and which can wait til the next paycheck?
Milk, we always need milk. Bring some home just in case.
Did you remember to fix the closet door?
I don’t want it falling on me.
I think the purple room door needs sanding too.
Do you need help? I have no idea where the screwdriver is.
I know having a handicapped pet is difficult,
but don’t you agree that he came to us for the right reasons?
Too many people I know would put Hunter down
instead of buying him a wheelchair
that cost as much as the tires my Honda needs.
You want to foster another dog? Really?
Yeah I’m in, but what about starting a family in two years?
Or our trip to Europe after my graduation?
You know most people who foster end up adopting right?
Well, let’s get a senior. They need homes the most.
I took the dogs to the beach today since you were at the station.
You should’ve seen Hunter in the waves in his chair. He loved it.
He played with other dogs and he ran across the sand with Cooper.
Several people blessed me, blessed us.
What do you want for dinner? Did you thaw the chicken?
We can do spaghetti; it’s your favorite and simple.
Want to watch a movie while I do schoolwork?
Do you still have that practice burn tomorrow?
Lake afterwards? We could bring the dogs to swim
and take a walk afterwards. It does sound nice.
You bought another rug? Yeah, that’s fine, the tile makes my feet cold.
It was only thirty seven dollars? Definitely worth it.
It matches the dining room, let’s put it in there.
Do you remember the toast your dad gave at our wedding last year?
He said he thought each person has a certain amount of words
to use in their life and you’re quiet, not because I talk so much,
but because you’re running out of words and we need them?
I think about that speech every day. He was right.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Somewhere in Wyoming
A barn, large and red, trimmed in white,
settles itself in a field of wheat
that dances to and fro, yellow and gold.
Right is a homely pale blue house,
two stories tall. Windows reflect the sun,
eggshell paint peels from the railing
that is the front porch. Two welcoming
rocking chairs the color of butter
and freshly cleaned sway slightly in the breeze.
Apple pie is in the air, mixed with manure,
or dirt. Laundry from the line out back
wafts the light scent of lavender into
the oil dripping from the tractor nearby.
A motor far off in the distance rumbles
down a country lane moving away
and crickets can be heard though twilight
hasn’t yet fallen. Horses nay and whinny
stomping their hooves for grain and
the screen door slams in response.
settles itself in a field of wheat
that dances to and fro, yellow and gold.
Right is a homely pale blue house,
two stories tall. Windows reflect the sun,
eggshell paint peels from the railing
that is the front porch. Two welcoming
rocking chairs the color of butter
and freshly cleaned sway slightly in the breeze.
Apple pie is in the air, mixed with manure,
or dirt. Laundry from the line out back
wafts the light scent of lavender into
the oil dripping from the tractor nearby.
A motor far off in the distance rumbles
down a country lane moving away
and crickets can be heard though twilight
hasn’t yet fallen. Horses nay and whinny
stomping their hooves for grain and
the screen door slams in response.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Effects of Marriage
327 days move quickly like water in a storm drain.
There are moments when it all rushes up,
when the fabric frays or tears.
Each night I sew up all the loose strands
that come undone with the day.
I take the words of others and pack them
carefully in a box, ship it to Greenland.
“I love you” comes out like word vomit.
I thought we were strong. Like a rock.
Doubt creeps in my ear at night sometimes
and lays her eggs, like gentle thoughts.
I exterminate and dam up the walls.
I want to fold you into an origami duck
and place you somewhere deep in my cupboard.
A shoebox that only I know the combination for.
I’ll set it under my boots and bury it in scarves,
tuck you away from the world and keep you for myself.
Or maybe one day I will become a swan and
we can migrate away. Do swans migrate?
I say they do, I say I do and we shall fly
to the coast of Ireland just because we wish
for the salt of the sea to touch our cheeks.
There are moments when it all rushes up,
when the fabric frays or tears.
Each night I sew up all the loose strands
that come undone with the day.
I take the words of others and pack them
carefully in a box, ship it to Greenland.
“I love you” comes out like word vomit.
I thought we were strong. Like a rock.
Doubt creeps in my ear at night sometimes
and lays her eggs, like gentle thoughts.
I exterminate and dam up the walls.
I want to fold you into an origami duck
and place you somewhere deep in my cupboard.
A shoebox that only I know the combination for.
I’ll set it under my boots and bury it in scarves,
tuck you away from the world and keep you for myself.
Or maybe one day I will become a swan and
we can migrate away. Do swans migrate?
I say they do, I say I do and we shall fly
to the coast of Ireland just because we wish
for the salt of the sea to touch our cheeks.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
My Favorite Poem
Why I Am Not A Painter - Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
-- I love this poem because it explains everything a poet does in such a humorous manner. We take what inspires us and work it until we feel uncomfortable and keep working it until it barely resembles what inspires us. I meet people all the time who look at me funny when I describe myself as a poet. It seems dated and odd to them that I have an interest writing what few people read, but I'm no different than anyone else. I work what intrigues me, I follow what I feel I'm good at. I add words and change lines. I'm just like a painter.
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
-- I love this poem because it explains everything a poet does in such a humorous manner. We take what inspires us and work it until we feel uncomfortable and keep working it until it barely resembles what inspires us. I meet people all the time who look at me funny when I describe myself as a poet. It seems dated and odd to them that I have an interest writing what few people read, but I'm no different than anyone else. I work what intrigues me, I follow what I feel I'm good at. I add words and change lines. I'm just like a painter.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
April 3, 2011 10:52am
Tears form in my eyes but I don’t let them fall.
Fanning them like a beauty queen
who just won the crown, I turn on the blinker
and shift over into the right lane.
The speed limit on International Boulevard
isn’t very fast but people zipping by me
seem desperate to leave their memories at the airport.
I just want to head back. Or make it the first trip there,
begin the weekend all over again. Rewind to the Friday night nerves,
the slow moving digital clock, the pages of Everything She Thought She Wanted.
“Atlanta – Delta – 8:38 – Arrived” flashes bright orange
on the scoreboard-like sign standing at the exit
of the Cell Phone Waiting area. I sit up tall in the bucket seat
put the book away and pause, breathe. “Come on down!!!”
the text reads. Reverse, Drive, 0.5 miles later a hug.
A hug I never get. A hug I wish I could get daily.
Cruise control on 526 to help me handle the lead foot
my mom passed down, 101.7 ChuckFM plays everything.
Pointing out downtown Charleston and the Cooper River Bridge
that 40,000 people will run a 10K over as we cross the Don Holt.
Foyer, living room, sun room, dining alcove, kitchen, master bedroom,
two guest rooms, bathrooms, laundry room, Cooper, Hunter,
Charlie, Whiskers, Rickee, Bobby, Bob Barker, the cedar chest.
Long way around Charleston County: 17, 526, 26 to King Street.
“Look at the joggers running on East Bay.” Dunkin Donuts coffee,
stopping to see a parade of bridge runners dressed as jail escapees.
I show you the campus buildings one by one and we pause for a picture.
What will the Class of 2012 give CofC? What’s left to give?
Walking from shirts to stickers to hats in the bookstore
I show you the school colors and logo.
Stepping into the crowd of runners, we walk down King Street,
talk about Five Guys, the theatre, Shooz and enjoy lunch at Sticky Fingers.
Surprise Mary Mac! A car ride through the Battery, Citadel, Cooper Bridge
and Patriots Point before we head to the house to let the dogs out.
Discussing movies, basketball, cupcakes, we all relax on the couches
for an hour. Dinner at Los Arcos and I can’t stop glancing at you.
I have your eyes, eyebrows, nose. Mary Mac makes us all order in Spanish.
Josh, you and I panic, each picking things already translated, instead of what
we wanted, hoping we pronounce them right. I eat too much chips and salsa.
We all pile back into the Element and, still chattering,
drop Mary Mac off at her dorm, go home and head to bed.
In the morning we share conversation and sip cups
of freshly brewed coffee in the dining alcove. I take mine with a lot of cream;
you, a tad of cream and sugar. At 9:45am sharp, we are in the car once more.
A quick trip to Panera Bread near Sam’s Club for a cinnamon roll,
then I’m driving, all too soon, towards Charleston International Airport.
How is it already Sunday?
A long hug, a kiss and two sliding glass doors later, you’re gone.
Fanning them like a beauty queen
who just won the crown, I turn on the blinker
and shift over into the right lane.
The speed limit on International Boulevard
isn’t very fast but people zipping by me
seem desperate to leave their memories at the airport.
I just want to head back. Or make it the first trip there,
begin the weekend all over again. Rewind to the Friday night nerves,
the slow moving digital clock, the pages of Everything She Thought She Wanted.
“Atlanta – Delta – 8:38 – Arrived” flashes bright orange
on the scoreboard-like sign standing at the exit
of the Cell Phone Waiting area. I sit up tall in the bucket seat
put the book away and pause, breathe. “Come on down!!!”
the text reads. Reverse, Drive, 0.5 miles later a hug.
A hug I never get. A hug I wish I could get daily.
Cruise control on 526 to help me handle the lead foot
my mom passed down, 101.7 ChuckFM plays everything.
Pointing out downtown Charleston and the Cooper River Bridge
that 40,000 people will run a 10K over as we cross the Don Holt.
Foyer, living room, sun room, dining alcove, kitchen, master bedroom,
two guest rooms, bathrooms, laundry room, Cooper, Hunter,
Charlie, Whiskers, Rickee, Bobby, Bob Barker, the cedar chest.
Long way around Charleston County: 17, 526, 26 to King Street.
“Look at the joggers running on East Bay.” Dunkin Donuts coffee,
stopping to see a parade of bridge runners dressed as jail escapees.
I show you the campus buildings one by one and we pause for a picture.
What will the Class of 2012 give CofC? What’s left to give?
Walking from shirts to stickers to hats in the bookstore
I show you the school colors and logo.
Stepping into the crowd of runners, we walk down King Street,
talk about Five Guys, the theatre, Shooz and enjoy lunch at Sticky Fingers.
Surprise Mary Mac! A car ride through the Battery, Citadel, Cooper Bridge
and Patriots Point before we head to the house to let the dogs out.
Discussing movies, basketball, cupcakes, we all relax on the couches
for an hour. Dinner at Los Arcos and I can’t stop glancing at you.
I have your eyes, eyebrows, nose. Mary Mac makes us all order in Spanish.
Josh, you and I panic, each picking things already translated, instead of what
we wanted, hoping we pronounce them right. I eat too much chips and salsa.
We all pile back into the Element and, still chattering,
drop Mary Mac off at her dorm, go home and head to bed.
In the morning we share conversation and sip cups
of freshly brewed coffee in the dining alcove. I take mine with a lot of cream;
you, a tad of cream and sugar. At 9:45am sharp, we are in the car once more.
A quick trip to Panera Bread near Sam’s Club for a cinnamon roll,
then I’m driving, all too soon, towards Charleston International Airport.
How is it already Sunday?
A long hug, a kiss and two sliding glass doors later, you’re gone.
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