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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

 

 

The white sauce whisked to smoothness

before the cheese is added,

and the elbow noodles boiled till they’re al dente,

 

the Pyrex buttered with long looping swirls of the fingers,

the cheddar spread evenly on top.

It is not easy for most people to see

 

devotion in the mac and cheese.

It doesn’t look like prayer.

But it’s there.

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To the Death

 

 

 

And so it is that Love

threw at my feet her glove,

a long white one, perhaps,

but nonetheless a glove.

I took it up because

I knew the rules, and Love

looked me right in the eyes

and speared me with her words:

“It’s easy to fall in love

with spring, but can you care

for everything—the dross,

the dreck, the scum, the muck,

the loss, the wreck, the grime,

the dust? And can you find them

in you, too? And can

you fall in love with you?

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Absence

 

 

The bluebirds return.

It never occurs to me to chastise them for leaving.

It’s what they do.

 

All day, I think

of their shallow wing beats,

their slow flight,

 

their bright blue fluttering,

and how easily, how instantly yesly

my heart rises up to meet them.

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Inquiry

 

 

How has pride helped your family?

That is a question I’ve never asked.

Nor How do you treat yourself

 

when you think “I must give others choices?”

And suddenly it occurs to me

that I always ask the same questions.

 

How was your day? and Peanut butter

sandwich or bagel with cream cheese?

I have been thinking of new questions today.

 

What do you have to teach me?

Earth, what do you want? and

Where do I begin? But these are still

 

questions I can think of. I want to learn

new questions, questions I don’t yet know to ask.

Questions that scare me. Questions that make me

 

weep just hearing them. Questions

I know I will spend a lifetime

learning how to answer

 

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Springing

 

 

 

I am reborn into the world of radiance—

crystalline icicles, glittering reaches of snow—

and whatever in me is old brown stick,

whatever in me is withered rose hip,

whatever is desiccated and dead takes notice

of the shine and says, Teach me that.

 

I am reborn into the world of drip

and melt and streets of mud,

and whatever part of me is muck-squeamish

and sludge resistant goes walking anyway

and wallows and squishes and slips and laughs.

 

In that slippery moment, the part of me

who has died becomes lotus.

And who is it in me that scoffs

and says Who are you to be lotus?

I show her diamonds in the field,

the big blue dome of sky, the vast

expanses of glistening mud,

and I ask her, Who are you not to be?

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The Berry Bush

 

 

I knew that they were poisonous, the berries.

Still, I used them to make soup. They were

the most beautiful shades of yellow, green

and orange, and they popped when you squeezed them

and spilled their sticky juice, their tiny seeds.

I’d stir them into puddle water with handfuls

of ripped green grass, small stones, broken sticks.

Then I’d stir. Stir and chant into the old silver pot,

chant words I imagined had been sung long before.

It was a soup, I knew, that could heal.

A magical soup that could nourish the world

just in the making of it.

 

Years later I consider what I knew then—

how belief is the most important ingredient.

How all healing begins with a bit of poison.

 

 

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the glass half empty

she keeps filling it

never noticing

in the bottom

all the tiny holes

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Job Description

 

 

My work is to be the student of the buds

that have been on the birch all winter—

tight and red, they know when to clench,

when to wait, when to swell,

when to burst, when to green.

 

My work is to open like the scent of juniper

when stroked by afternoon sun,

like the gong when rapidly rapped

into a shining explosion of resonance.

 

And when I am wall, my work

is to add hinges and become door.

 

And when I am lock, my work

is to find the lost key.

 

My work is to be baby bird,

to open my beak and take in

whatever the world has to feed me

and then

learn to fly.

 

 

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cleaning off my shoes

before walking through the mud,

and Love says to me,

what? do you think

I am going to carry you?

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It is the child of cold and warmth.

It is right it should show up

both cloudy and clear,

this union of opposites,

shaped like a spear, piercing

the silence with dripping, dripping.

It forms itself

the same way it disappears.

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