Taking on LIfe

7.18.07

She takes on life with a presumption of excellence. "This is the best day ever!" her common refrain.

She dances her steps, refusing classes but insisting on teaching me what she knows.

"Mom, what was your favorite part of that movie?" she asks.

She squeals in delight at slapstick and punches her dad in the stomach daily as part of his fitness regimen.

She puts on a show, but keeps things to herself.

She loves this life and imagines so many others.

She is hope and possibility.

Trust

My son's boxers

size 10 - 12

flimsy cotton

in a light blue plaid,

the mark of ghetto wear

rising above low slung jeans

a mere slip of fabric

between tender genitals

and rough denim threads

the world at large.

The faith we have in

clothing to protect,

project and pretend.

I bore this child

and now he flies

in his own world,

of rock n roll

and skateboards

on his long, paddle feet.

Yet night comes

and still he fingers

his old lambskin

before sleep.

WINDBLOWN 7.8.07

The simple joy of sticking one’s head out of a sun roof while being driven down a windy, rural road. Cicadas and tree peepers the only music in this humid, green countryside. A family of puppies greets our arrival at a log cabin tucked into a dell. We are unplugged from phones and internet and Noah thrills at his cousins electric guitar and Hanah dives into the hammock with the other little cousin. The boys practice chopping wood as the girls explore the woods and tell stories, while the other grown ups shop for dinner and I sit on the front porch rocking. The men bring home the pork. We grill. Sit around a fire pit and simply poking around the embers with sticks entertain the kids until they drop.
Simple joys of family, the woods, a starry sky and a rocking chair on a front porch.

Cicatrice

7.7.07

Grey, tight clothesline

stretching across a nippled breast

Dark brown coffee stain

on a slender wrist

Star burst of white flesh

dimpling a flank

The slash of birth

tucked into pubic hair

Sign posts of a life lived

but the deepest wound

goes yet unseen

curving outward

like a cupped hand

begging for

a kiss, a quarter, a stitch.