You hide in the flesh of onions
the way hope hides in certain Superbowl commercials.
It’s not that I don’t expect you,
so why does it feel like an ambush when you,
chemical irritant released into air,
bring tears to my eyes and I stand there
at the kitchen counter weeping
over the cutting board,
weeping as if a lover died,
as if listening to cello,
as if I realize again there is so much suffering
in the world I cannot change.
You remind me it’s natural to cry—
that waterworks are hardwired into the eyes.
You teach me sometimes what nourishes us
also burns.
There are times when I’ve wondered
why we aren’t all weeping—
weeping for the lack of connection,
weeping for children who hunger,
weeping for love between friends
and the red of maple leaves—
it’s as if you give us permission,
prepare the pathways,
so that when at last we succumb
to our glorious humanity
we don’t try to hide it,
we don’t act as if it’s a problem,
we just stand in the center of the room
and let those hot tears
fall down our cheeks,
the salt sharp and hot on our tongues.
I adore the way you let specifics speak to the universal.
Thank you, Laura–I used to lament that I have such a tight lens in my work. When i want to make myself feel better about it, I call it an “intimate” lens … and I wondered when I would “grow up” and have a more universal lens like my mentor Art. It was reading “Creative Habit” by Twyla Tharp that I came to make peace with it–even to honor that that is just how I am. And that most artists have a specific lens. Very few are able to create “across lenses.” I have my ideas about your work, but what lens do you think you have–a close up lens, a wide angle, a landscape, something more removed (like the narrator in Our Town) …
This reminds me of something a friend said recently that I’ve kept returning to: “crying is like breathing.”
oh, I will return to this comparison, too–I can think about it in so many ways. Thanks, Tara!