O body, cracked bell
that still sings when struck,
O leaky cup,
O broken stem,
I love you, body,
your crooked path,
your crumbling walls,
your faulty math.
I love the way
you stopped believing
you could ever
hold it all,
how you began
to let yourself
become the one
that’s being held.
I love the graffiti
on your inner halls—
scrawled names of all
who shaped you.
O body, my wreck,
my holey glove,
my street worn sole,
my crumpled page,
forgive me for years
of trying to fix you,
for believing the fable
of whole,
you, my perfect
splattered heart,
my stuttered hymn,
my sacred
begging bowl.
Posts Tagged ‘self image’
Temple
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, brokenness, sacred, self image on January 13, 2022| 11 Comments »
Prophecy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged home, milkweed, self image, self worth on June 29, 2020| 2 Comments »
One day you will forget to question your worthiness.
No matter what door you walk through, even your own,
you will feel no need to apologize,
concede no need to defend.
You’ll set down your big suitcase of hope
and never ever open it again.
It will not matter if you are greeted by others
with kisses or with snarls, no, you will know
your own value the way milkweeds do,
which is to say, not at all.
Common as dandelions.
Complex as supernova.
Your worth will be that natural, that assumed.
The Night Before Thanksgiving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brother, memory, poem, poetry, self image, sister, thanksgiving on November 27, 2019| 2 Comments »
Forty years later, my brother and I
go to the Jewel to buy evaporated milk
and egg nog, and part of me doubts
I will remember the way that we scoured
the produce aisle for green beans. Then again,
who could say why I remember
with incredible clarity the moments
when I was ten and we had just finished
the great turkey feast and my brother and I,
as we loved to do, asked to be excused,
but instead of leaving the dining room,
we simply lay on the floor beneath the table
with our feet up on our chairs
and conversed with each other
there across the green and white shag.
I don’t recall what we said or what we wore,
and it was no important moment, but
I remember the feel of it:
I knew we were together in this—
this moment, this family, this life,
so much so that forty years later
the memory of these ten minutes
is as real to me as the scent of the pumpkin pie
my sister-in-law baked tonight.
How is it that such a short snippet of time
defines us? How it comes to be
the moment we return to again and again
to remind ourselves who we are,
who we love, and why we are here—
those moments, stolen, and still
they give us back ourselves. Even now
in the produce aisle of Jewel, I can feel it—
the carpet against my cheek, can smell
the cranberry salad, can hear my grandfather
and grandmother laughing over our heads,
my brother’s eyes widening, mischievous, so alive.
When Asked What I Do Well, I Think
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged applause, poem, poetry, self image on August 24, 2019| 3 Comments »
I’m the one who will whoop
amidst polite applause.
I give standing ovations
to the petunias most mornings.
I clap for kingfishers,
otter and moose just
because they are there.
I cheer for sunflowers,
red amanita mushrooms,
the snake making it off the road.
I praise the bell pepper, the squash,
the robin, the owl.
I celebrate the moonless night
and the dark inside the shell.
It’s my talent to find beauty,
to honor, to acclaim.
I revel in petal, pinecone, fall.
May I never lose my enthusiasm,
though it means I’m not edgy,
predictable, a fool.
May I always fall in love with the world
and applaud it: river rock, larkspur,
lichen, hail.
It Can Grow Nearly Anywhere
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, poem, poetry, self image, sweet clover, truth, woman on July 1, 2015| 2 Comments »
The field is full of sweet clover.
This is the truest line I can write.
There was a time when,
with discriminating precision,
I cleared this field of sweet clover,
preferring only rushes and grass.
Now, after a rain-rich spring
and a sweltering summer,
the deep field is startlingly aglow
with millions of tiny yellow flowers.
The field full of sweet clover is beautiful.
This is an opinion.
A woman can think what she wants to think.
Sometimes her thoughts think her.
Beautiful. Not beautiful.
This argument stretches
past the open field.
Sweet clover has a taproot
is difficult to pull up when the earth is dry.
This is a fact.
In a woman, there are ten thousand
tap-rooted lies about how she looks
and who she is. If she pulls one up,
and even a bit of the lie remains,
it comes back twice as vigorous.
The field is full of sweet clover.
There is something so comforting
about knowing it is true,
so comforting I say it again.
The field is full of sweet clover.
There are thousands of honeybees.
The field is full of sweet clover.
I look into it like a mirror.
Misunderstanding
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged elk, poem, poetry, power, self image on May 4, 2015| 1 Comment »
The two bull elk in the yard startled
when I walked out the front door.
They stared at me as I stared at them.
Though I stepped quiet and slow
in a different direction, they turned and ran
into the trees. How could they be
so frightened of me? Ah, of course.
Perhaps I am the one who does not
understand my power.
Oh Hush Up and Eat the Bread
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, ego, insecurity, love, poem, poetry, self image on April 29, 2012| 8 Comments »
Today it’s the bread
that reminds me
how human I am—
how I want people
to like the bread
that I baked, how I hope
they can taste
the organic grain
that I ground myself
for the pleasure
of grinding it, sure,
how I can get the texture
just the way I like it,
but also for some small
way it makes me feel
as if I am a better person
because I have ground
the flour. Oh it is
so tricky, the way
I start to believe
that if the people I love
like the bread I bake
that they will like me more.
As if rye and winter wheat
have anything to do
with who I am.
But I do not despise
the bread for this. Its taste
is the taste of harvest,
sunshine and rain,
patience and earth.
The bread wants nothing
and nourishes despite.
Nor do I despise myself
for the longing to be loved.
Well, not much.
So human, I tell myself
to think we’re not enough.
Of course we’re enough,
Of course. Just as we are.
Still, I can’t help but wonder
if I made the butter, too,
well, then they might really,
really love me.