a memory of december 7th

Five years ago on Pearl Harbor day, I woke up cold in a twin bed in my grandmother's house in Shaker Heights.

It was a bitterly wintry first weekend of December in Cleveland. I had packed stockings and skirts, wanting to show off my recent transformation into Boston city chic to Ammah, ever supportive of my classical music pursuits, and I woke up regretting the thin contents of my carry on. I pulled stockings on and put my pajama bottoms back on over them, doubled up on socks,  and shrugged a wool scarf I'd found in the closet around my torso. I got back in bed, but it was still too cold. I gave up on the dream of sleeping in on a Saturday, and got out of bed to wander down from the third floor attic room.

Grandma was sitting downstairs, and she greeted me.

"Hello Barbara."

I shrugged it off, reminded her I'm her grand-daughter Lucy, I'm visiting her and mom for the weekend. I got in last night on a slightly delayed flight, and took the rapid from the airport to the neighborhood station. It was late, so she probably didn't hear me come in. I'm sleeping in Aunt Al's room.

"Oh, yes, oh yes. It's so good to see you! How is working at the symphony? Are you liking it?"

I was surprised she remembered about the symphony. It's funny what could stick and what wouldn't from the day to day exchanges. Mom had been telling her about my impending visit for weeks, maybe months, maybe even since the day I bought the ticket in early October. It had been several weeks since I started the new job, and feeling a bit settled and flush with cash after a few solid paychecks, I bought a ticket. Ammah had Alzheimer's, along with a grab bag of other ailments that come along with living past ninety. It had been a tough five years, and a tougher five before.

Mom told me to wait until January to visit, "there's no rush,we'll be here just the same", but I had been amazed by the blank boxes in December under the numbers 6, 7, and 8. It was some kind of sign. I was sitting at my still new desk in October one Tuesday after all of my colleagues had left, killing time before a rehearsal at Old South Church. I could've walked over right away and met everyone for the traditional pre-sing burrito, but something was tugging on the edges of my temples. I hadn't seen mom since May and Ammah since June. The distance had been weighing on me all fall, and was only getting worse. And I didn't know why.

In Ammah's kitchen, I put the kettle on and perused the breakfast options. The big kitchen windows made the room even chiller than upstairs and I shrugged on my wool hat and stood closer to the stovetop. Mom came bustling up from the basement, her arms full of cookbooks, and ordered a veggie egg white omelette if I was gonna hopefully get cooking.

"There's sausages too, sweetie, in the freezer."

It would be a full, quiet morning. While grandma watched a news program and finished her tiny breakfast, I examined every inch of that old house. I had spent very little time in it as a child; we always spent time with Grandma Bryan at the cottage on the lake in Michigan instead of in Ohio. I was fascinated by the artifacts and treasures she had stashed and stored and kept all of these years. The last of her family line, Ammah inherited everything from the dark wooden dining set to pink china to animal figurines. I spent time moving around like the house was a beloved art museum, saying hello to old friends and loving on new ones. Picking up her books and turning them over in my hands, opening the first page to see if her name or my great-grandmother's, the English major, would be inscribed in wiggly blue pen.

Another cup of tea and toast in hand, I made my way back through all of the rooms and to Ammah's side in the living room. Mom had picked out a Christmas tree a day or two before, and set it up for me to decorate. She had pulled out our box of ornaments from our old house in Massachusetts, as well as all of the Christmas ornaments she could find in the basement. Grandma sat and we talked about music and my last visit to Cleveland the year before for Thanksgiving, and the Rachmaninoff piano concerto we had taken her to hear at the CSO. I took a sip of my tea and realized I was on the edge of tears, turned back to the tree and kept hanging ornaments while Ammah hummed to herself, not knowing I could hear. I didn't know where my brain was, and why I was feeling heavy again, even in this moment. I wondered what Ammah was thinking about, too.

Mom appeared in the living room, in between trips carrying laundry upstairs, and asked me to play the piano and sing a hymn or two for Grandma, but I pushed it off. Keyboarding skills at Wellesley had done nothing for me. Plus, the only hymnal on the instrument was the 1982 and all the hymns are the trickiest in that one. I felt guilty for opting not to bring my flute or guitar for the weekend. A real musician would be able to play a Christmas hymn for their grandmother.

I put the last ornament on the tree, and brought each of us a plate of a few chocolates and cookies, and more tea. When every one was settled with sweets in their spots around the tree, I plugged in the lights. Ammah sighed, and smiled. Mom got the glassy faraway look in her eyes, the one she gets whenever she talks about sailing. And horse races. And India. Something snagged in my chest, and I looked away.

We had plans to do a few errands while Ammah napped. Mom had discovered a used book store, a magical place, complete with a large, loving cat, and wanted to show it to me quick before grabbing essentials (wine) at the grocery. We split up; mom to mystery and myself to poetry and rare books. Far too long later, mom found me. She was worried. We made our purchases, and hurried out of the peaceful store. At the supermarket, I could see mom growing more anxious the longer we waited in the check out aisle. She wasn't sure, but she felt we had been gone too long. She'd only meant to be gone an hour, and two had snuck by.

When we got back to the house, Ammah was awake, and she was frightened. She wasn't breathing well, and I left mom to take care of the nurse duties while I unloaded the car and put away the groceries. I could hear labored breathing from the bedroom, and an unfamiliar cough.

I didn't know what it was or what was happening. But I also knew, somehow, exactly what was happening. I had known all day. Maybe even since the night I sat at my cubicle and cried, and thought about Donny and thought about Cleveland, and booked a ticket.

Mom called out asking for a glass of water and warm wet dish cloth, and then she asked me to get dinner prepped while she waited for Ammah's breathing to stabilize. She'd forgotten, we'd already made a meat loaf. All that needed doing was green beans and potatoes, and I could wait a while until dinner time rolled around. It was only 4. I went upstairs to the little twin bed and got back in bed still in my jacket, scarf, hat, and mittens. I put my headphones in. All I could hear was a rattling, unfamiliar cough. I closed my eyes, and focused my brain on just the soft words of "Joy to the World", my favorite version. The one I was listening to walking home to my flat in Vienna after Thanksgiving, when it snowed for the first time in my new city. The one I was listening to in June when I visited Ammah at the cottage with Aunt Alice and decided to bake Christmas cookies and a pie the same morning. Alice's iguana had died the night before, drowned in the bathtub.

The song played twice, then I gave up again. Too damn cold for a nap. I went back to the kitchen. it had become the only slightly warm spot in the whole house.

I put the kettle on, and pulled out the mixing bowls. Flour, baking powder, hazelnuts, salt. Sugar, egg, a splash of milk. The star-shaped cookie cutter mom gave me last Christmas. The raspberry jam was still in the last shopping bag, and the powdered sugar. I pried the tiny recipe card out of the back pocket of my leather purse, and twisted my long hair up, tying it in place with a rubber band from the silverware drawer. Grandma's kitchen apron was only a waist skirt, but it would do. I pulled the strings around my back and then brought them back in front of my waist to tie a crisp bow. Smoothed the soft fabric down with both hands. Took a deep breath.

Mom was with Ammah; everything would be okay. I was with them both, and soon, we would have star-shaped cookies, and falling snow.



--- in memory of my grandmother, Sarah (Sally) Sells Bryan who died in her bed with her beloved animals, one of her two daughters, and one of her two grand-daughters by her side, on December 7, 2013, after a Cavalier's win

once

once
a long time ago
a young girl dreamed
riding her bicycle down
a quiet country lane
northern michigan her domain
and she dreamed
she dreamed
she thought what if, what if
what if, what if

once
still long ago
that same young girl dreamed
walking hand in hand
with a curly haired boy
in the snow
a few days before the new year
and they dreamed
they dreamed
he said what if, with me?
what if, with you?
she thought what if, with me?
what if, with you.
but she couldn't
see it through

they met at a party
no, the first time he saw her
she was sitting in her window
playing a sad french song on the guitar
but back to the night at the party
they had a lot of rum
and stumbled out in the viennese streets
he recited pushkin to her
as she sat
to catch her
tipsy fevered
breath

months later she said
what if, we tried?
what if, I came back to your side?
what if, an ocean meant nothing to us?
what if


she'll keep dreaming
she's dreaming

the fox dances

something woke me
6 am and
I sat up straight

something woke me
wasn't sure I knew it's name but I
tried to look it in the face

it wasn't real
but it wasn't fake
it wasn't wrong
but it wasn't right either

got outta bed
walked around
but it was darkness I found

warmed a cup of day old tea
grabbed the sugar
the milk had gone bad

washed my face
brushed my teeth
waited
it all came back

you went away
you didn't say goodbye
you didn't say why

trusting used to come so easy
loving too
time to time it is again

guess i'm learning
how to breath in and out
real slow

you went away
you didn't say goodbye
you didn't say why

lit a candle
watched the fox dance
golden on the wall

dreamcatcher
four years true
you've got some work to do

take this bad dream from my head
take this bad feeling from my limbs
take it away

you went away
you didn't say goodbye
you didn't say why

something woke me
6 am and
I sat up straight

something woke me
now I know it's name
it'll come round again

the way we live

writing poems on the grocery list
making rhymes in scottish accents
perfecting our pour-over form
dancing to the beat of our own
second-line band

we're happiest when creating
we're smoothest while making
(I'm messiest while baking)
the neighbor's hottest while raking

pick a sofa, stay a while
even if you're busy
honey'll put your worries at ease
c'mon friend, won't you please?

momma

how many times have you prayed for each of us?
a hundred? five hundred?

the neighbor blows his leaves around the yard.

cross -legged with pencil and cafe au lait in hand
my new, unkempt domain stretches out before me

did your prayers send me here?
did mine?


-written end of december 2017

christmas 2017


dixie cups perched by my toothbrush
telltale sign mom was here
tall matches and tiny matches
just because
leftover salmon in the fridge
candies in a camouflage stocking

sometimes you take care of me
sometimes i take care of you

it's good right now
to trade

soon we'll be twenty-great
and seventy strong
I hope we'll be having shakshuka
and challah for christmas supper
all along

different kind of love

hey there friend
I know you have a lot on your mind
I'm writing just in case you need reminding
that I'm here, you can talk if you want
I'll stay real quiet
you might not know,
but shutting up is something
I've been practicing
I can show you, it's true

I think you feel real bad
I think there's pricks of guilt and shame
The thorns get me sometimes too
You don't need permission
But I'm giving it to you all the same
I'm happy to call you by your true name

I don't need anything from you to be well
It's this wanting, that's what I have for you
Doesn't need to be today or tomorrow
I'll dream a little about the someday
until you come around again

It's this quiet knowing you exist
this quiet knowing, it's enough
It's enough for me
Go, be, do
I love to see you
off and out,
being you

Donny with the red shorts
Donny with the tricks
Donny with those skinny arms
climbing up the clock tower
and scaring me to bits

What happened, friend?
What did you do?
What did you think you had to escape,
you had to dive into the blue?
No use wishing I could have been there
No use wanting to know
But today it's washing over me again
These questions won't let me go

Donny, you were so serious
Donny you worked so much
Donny you wanted to be so good
and so kind and so true,
what did you make yourself hide
what did you make yourself do?

What happened, oh my friend?
What thought trapped you that day?
No use wishing I could have stopped you
No use wanting answers after all this time
but your voice, your light
is with me tonight

Donny, I didn't even know you well
Donny, I don't believe you could be in hell
Donny why did it happen
Donny why did you go
Donny I'll keep asking
Donny I'll never know

october 23, 2017 at the aviary 


dear tomorrow
dear today
dear blue sky
dear truck engine
dear crisp paper cranes
dear clear michigan lake
dear donny if you're listening 
dear hannah if you're singing
dear terry if you forgive me
dear ammah if you remember
dear daniel if you're waiting
dear davina if you're laughing
dear heart
dear lungs
dear eyes

do you hear the bells?
do you feel the breeze?
do you remember
do you know it, again,
do you know it
can you be unafraid 
can you be unafraid
today

---written about a year ago, the day I handed my keys back into the public school after 4 miserable weeks, feeling a fool, an imposter, a failure, but at least free one

Off - lyrics

You didn't leave the light on
When I got home,
The house was dark
And I knew, I knew, I knew.

I told you I was sorry
Could you please forgive me
I'd thought that we could still be friends
But you went and froze me out

Waited a few days and then a few days more
Hoping you would open up
But you went away
And when you got back
You couldn't look at me

What am I to do
I fixed all that I could
And now a few more weeks have passed
But silence and stone are your way
You have made your choice
And so I see that I
Should go ahead and make mine
I cannot, cannot stay

You didn't leave the light on for me
You turned it off, turned it off
And I knew, I knew,
That you didn't love me anymore

But you didn't know
That I'd rather go
I'm gone

But I left that
light on

tonight we set out for the big view
the fancy one, the lights, the buildings
the capitol dome at the end of the avenue,
down the hill, and across the river
shining

we picked our way past the park with its
evening set of tweakers and stoners hiding
on the opposite side, hoping no one would notice them
and I  thought about the conversation one man had with me
yesterday or maybe the day before, it was warmer than I expected,
my sweater was too snug, and I was trying to defeat the yellow team
in the pokemon gym at the park entrance sign, when this man
standing a few yards away, motioned to my dog and called out to me
'is she friendly?'
it took me a second to realize he was scared
another to realize he was on something
but he seemed gentle and more afraid of my dog
than of anything else and I looked up and said back,
'oh yes, she's quite calm, pet her if you like'
he approached as I was almost done with the battle,
my thumb raging on my phone, and he begins to tell me
everything, the rehab, the move, the necklace he got from a homeless man
who wasn't wearing it as cool as he is now, and how he wanted to get clean
but how short that lasted, and he thought Austin would be the place to get clean,
and could I tell that he was on drugs, did he look all drugged out,
and I sat there, patiently, and decidedly realizing this man
was perhaps more important in that particular moment,
than my pokemon battle, which I did still win, but quickly put away
and I listened and listened
and wondered, what,
if anything,
I could ever do
for a person
like this

I was thinking about him as I passed the park sign tonight,
and I was still thinking about him as I rounded the corner and started down Oltorf
toward South Congress, and began to think that maybe I was more tired
than I thought, and I turned to go back on the alleyway shortcut

I thought it would be pitch dark
but it was lit up golden yellow
and it was so peaceful we just, we
had to go down.

When the firefly flew across my path, and up,
I remembered.

Golden glow of the ginger candle four years ago,
my mother's silver dream catcher earring hanging on the side
there was some ceremony in the lighting of the candle
the first mid-February night in Somerville Massachusetts, wrapped in sweaters
wool socks, and blankets, sleeping in my sleeping bag under
a pile of clean clothing I was too tired to fold and put away,
clutching my hands in their mittens together,
pretending someone was there with me, holding my hands
and wondering, if my friend Davina was going to live another day.
Each night before I went to bed, I set the kettle on the stove top
and sat with it in silence, lit my ginger candle, and looked at all of
my sadness.

I didn't ask it any questions,
I didn't plead with it to leave,
I let it quietly begin to tell me its stories
I didn't know how many it had.
They were beautiful.

The firefly flew away
the hands clutching in my chest released, I began to remember
this funny girl who bounced through the door each day,
who always picked up the early shift, who laughed.
Her boyfriend told us in the chapel on campus what it was like to fall in love with her,
he gave us this immeasurable gift, the images that could stay with us.
She would always put on her makeup a certain way,
he told us, and he would try to mimic her,
'No, up, up! Like this!' she would call out,
and they would laugh and laugh and laugh.
Tomorrow they gather again at school,
to see the classroom with her name now, by the door,
to feel that perhaps, some good, a small bit of good,
came out of it all
in the end.


I couldn't be there.
I couldn't go.
And it's okay, even,
I'm not sure
being there
would make me feel any better.

There isn't a lot out there that can make any of us feel any better.
My tweaker friend is looking for it.
I was looking for it just a few years ago.
Maybe the only reason I didn't lose myself
was because of the ceremony music
or the couple of honest friends
or the island with the brie
and the wooden box
of dates I ate all of
after not eating much
for a very long time.

Honey dog pulled me toward the apartment, and I let her go
on, no big city walk for us tonight, my traveling
was done. My heart's far away in New England,
and my soul is too. It's just us, now, these memories,
same ginger candle, same dreamcatcher charm,
same tea, same sadness, same me. It'll do.

gestern abend

two guitars
and three friends
went out one night
to play

anansi's skinny legs
danced on seven strings
while fionn's hands plucked six

bourbon and gin
forgotten between
three pairs of bespectacled faces
two old, one young leaning foward,
eyes closed and lips parted to drink up
shining spinning sound from rose warm
wine-filled goblets of comradery,
lament, and bubbling,
giggling mirth

two guitars then to bed
five friends drinking red
shiny black boots tip tap
jean jacket on and off

two friends lead the
third on down the street
head full of sounds
heart tangled down
down, down by her feet

vendredi, il pleut

today was ten stolen minutes of prayer and coffee on my
new, still unfamiliar feeling balcony
with my beloved herbs
and a muffin i forgot to eat

today was a navy loafer sole flipping off minutes before
mass was supposed to start and
having to lift my right foot higher than
looked normal to walk without tripping

today was waiting until four minutes past eight and
then learning the Fathers miscommunicated and
we had to wait for a priest to drive over to
officiate our Friday morning mass
and we sang three of the children's
favorite songs to make the time
which passes so slowly in the Cathedral
pass just a little quicker

today was not knowing what to do about a problem
but praying and not knowing what to do about
a feeling but singing and not knowing how
I could still miss my uncle so much
but reading through several old
emails from him I had archived
and the emails were all thank you notes
for cards I had sent him during the last
years of his life and this moment
before my seventh graders are going
to start arriving in ones and twos with their
stories and fears and hopes and woes
that I have, with a second cup of coffee
and the wizard of oz snow globe he and
my aunt gave me when I was a child
sitting here at my desk,

which feels like home, which feels like now, which feels like
goodness

and today will be many other things I do not yet know
and will not even recognize
and now i am okay with
it all again

my classroom

"miss bergin...

today you look so beautiful"

are those SHELLS IN YOUR EARS?"   

can we PLEASE meet a new instrument today???"

can I use a tissue?"

can I show you what happened to my finger/knee/leg/arm?"

this is HARD/EASY/FUN/FAST!!!"

where is Maria Theresia (my classical guitar)?"

where is Joni (my steel string guitar)?"

can we call the piano Frank?"

can we all play Cecilia (the ornate wooden auto-harp) again?"

can we sing in choir in mass tomorrow?"

can I tell you about how my dad used to play guitar when he was young and he was really good at it and he wanted to be a famous guitar player someday and then he decided he needed to......"


-- things children said in class without raising hands today

and the most important thing to know...just moments before the student asked to call the piano Frank, I had decided, the room told me, his name was George. And he is my friend.

news today

today i opened up the heavy information
device given to me by my new travail
and clip clap tip tap began
to do a thing or two

a note came through
i opened it like any other
it didn't say much,
'sides 'read the attached'

clicked 'the attached'
a note from a doc
it didn't say much
but i noticed it
was on stationary
from the children's hospital
a doctor of cancer
and blood

i closed the first document
clicked twice, thrice, on the second
from the momma
she is so happy to share we can treat her
little girl
like 'a normal kid' for
about a month and a half at
school

oh.

tomorrow, in my first class of the day
i'll meet this little force
and i intend to do it with joy
she may only get 4 or 5 classes
before the cancer
makes her stay home
again she's only
three

pain and mirth
arrive side by
side by side by
side by
side in my
virtual mail

i do not know
how to be human
with this

i become water and salt
tomorrow i'll be
song, and hope
somehow

turkish volleyball

in the park near my new flat
turkish men gather to play
volleyball; each night just before 6:30
they arrive in ones and twos
a few small children
two boys, one little girl

how happy they make me
with their lively chatter
in a tongue i cannot understand
but with the same expression and intonation
as my old viennese friends
waiting for me, always late,
to the roman bathhouse,
the sauna,
the kitchen,
where our hands
spoke the language of
good food
good laughter
good life

love letters

been writing love letters lately
holding onto them
folding them into squares
drawing on the outside

intending to send them
and then debating the merit
of wearing your heart out
with a ball point pen
and small sheets of paper

watched a movie
where the leading sixteen year
old youngen gets the guy
with a letter finally sent
it was never meant to be tho
the letter
the love was

and i sit here
stuck in my own
particular
strain of
dissilussionment
i've sent the letter
or the email
or text
or whatever
and gotten the guy
before

before when it was safe
before when i had never been
let down and left
or when i had never
done the leaving

now i've left a lot
and been left
a few times, painfully
he's standing on my front steps
with two bags of my 'things'
he wanted to return and
he wanted to end it
and he had all his friends
waiting at their apartment
where i spent five out of seven
nights for five out of seven
months and it was short
but it was long in suddenly
breached adult years
of intensity

and a part of me
hasn't trusted anyone
or the word love
or the feeling of intimacy
or the feeling of wanting
and being wanted
ever since
five years ago
a boy i thought was a man
wrenched his life out of orbit
from mine
with very little
explanation
or apology

these letters look up at me
i've written them
they're mine
the words are
a prayer
they're out there
i know it
i'll wait

all my friends named paul

i've always loved the name paul
the way it sounds
the singular syllabic sense of it
the look of the double vowels au
in the middle
going somewhere
to the l final sound
starting with a push or pull

paul friends are always unexpected
they happen upon my path
in vienna i had two
one was three years old,
and austrian
so he said his name
"powl" which was
lovely, i thought
"powl" loved organs
he dragged his momma
into the catholic cathedrals
she had strayed from since
her college years
and now she found herself
sitting in them
watching her son listen
with rapt, silent, eager attention
to the sounds coming from unknown
unseen fingers
"powl" loved the color green
he would choose outfits with all pieces in different shades of it
it was wondrous
to behold
it made me want to make a dress
of every shade of it
to feel so much love
for the color
we prefer
and this love of his
in particular
extended to vegetables
can you imagine!
powl at three
eating Spargel with glee

my next viennese paul friend
owned a shop near my flat
he noticed me walking by
doubly daily or even thrice
depending on the uni schedule
one day at long last
he called me in to the shop
'one cup tea', he said
'one cup tea, friend',
and after a few days of
this friendly offer
i decided to say why not
and step inside
just to see
i returned
daily
the entirety of the year
and stopped feeling
so lonely
he gave me several items
and many cups of coffee and tea
and pastries and candies
the pink ones he put on top
i was at the time a bit
under-nourished
i couldn't cook
much besides
vegetarian pasta
and i spent all my
euros on gelato
and books
but finally,
i had to leave the city
and i could barely bring
myself to say goodbye
i didn't know how to part ways
with someone who once took
my hands in his and breathed in
deep and slow like my old
greek friend joe
and told me
my heart was too big
for just one immature boy
and that i should share it with
people who deserved it
and many of them
that the world needed
a heart like mine
in it

i thought about that
years later
when many parts of me had
decided to give up
my mind, my hands, my feet
my thighs, my ankles,
my fingertips even
but my ears never did
my teeth never did
and my heart, my heart never would
let me give up, oh no
i hated it for a while
it was so persistent

i have a friend at music school
who was finally my grouchy
jazz pianist cigarette smokin'
long islander pal
we complain
we bitch
we moan
we groan
we play music
we feel better
we talk it all over
in our spot under the trees
he's got his smoke,
i've got espresso
in hundred degree weather
we wear long pants
we got our glasses on too
he makes me feel
sometimes
so cool

but today, i almost missed out
on a new paul friend
a cold in my chest
but i went out to the store
car-less and a bit hope-less too
on a bleak monday morning
when all my rest was stolen
i saw him up ahead
hundred yards or so
in a tattered wheelchair, pulling back
vines from a fence
i thought maybe, a side door?
i wasn't sure
but i got closer, and i stopped
he was searching the leaves
he had caught the branch, and it flung
away his flashlight
he uses it on the side
of the chair
because he got hit once
and he won't get hit again
crossing the street
his knee is blown out
both hips too
he just found out
he's number one in line
for city housing
so he's doing just fine,
how bout you?
we couldn't find the light,
i was feeling so bad about it
he asked, could he carry my bags on his lap
if i'd help push him up the little
bit of the hill ahead?
i pushed him all the way to the store
i would have pushed him some more
we chatted for a while,
he told me his story
i asked him his name, he said paul,
i said lucy,
we talked and then were at the sliding doors
he swiveled around
looked right in my eyes this time
asked my name again
thanked me
i said 'of course, my pleasure
i wish you all the best, and god
bless'

holy tears

been weepin since i was young
cried at the telly set when
the kids wouldn't let the
rabbit have trix
trix aren't for rabbits
they said
and they meant it
and it was injustice
and i knew it
when i was little
and injustice made me weep

now it makes me rage
and rage only lasts a minute
before it turns into sorrow
and once again i find myself
crying in a public place
on the T, on the bus, walking
home listening to a song
i like a little too much
or the sound of my
grandmother's voice
on the phone in boston
telling me about where they
went to lunch that day
before the symphony
and how they wished
i was there to enjoy
our favorite asian
noodles together
again

the sister whose name
i never learned
but who wore vibrant
purple and blue habits
and who seemed ancient
and young and  was wise
and raw and honest
and loved me dearly
the instant she met me
somehow
i didn't know why
exactly
but sitting on the pew
she wiggled one finger toward me
and gestured that i should
take the place beside her
into her outstretched arm
she held me there, close
and tight, to look me right in my
eyes, and softly tell me
some of the most wonderful
and strange things
anyone i've ever just met
that day has told me

the second time, she came
striding into my classroom with
a folio folder and started giving
me lesson materials to teach french
but i teach music and i wasn't sure she
knew that, but she did, she wants me
to teach french too, someday,
if they need it, she says,
'because you love to speak
french', she said, 'you love it
and so one day you should
teach it too, so they have that love'
'and you know, my friend', she said,
'anyone who loves to speak french,
i love and loves me
so we are dear friends already.'
And that was that.

finally one day, she spoke to me
about emotions, and how music opens
up students to experiencing
these vulnerable feelings
and how some may cry
and she hoped i would love
that about them
that i would honor their tears
'tears, are a gift from God.'
She said to me, and
promptly, i began to cry.
Just a little.
But she noticed.

One more tight hug,
closely whispered french words
of adoration and affirmation,
and she left, for Houston,
to do more good work,
and to make more friends
with the love of French,
with the love of children,
with the love,
of God.

I cried a little, to see Sister go.

HEB fairy god-friend

you're not my fairy god-mother
you're not even a fairy god-aunt
you are my fairy god-friend
and when i need it most
you bring me sunshine

the items you select
with their orange sticker
cause a flicker behind my lids
and i start to tamp it down but i can't
quite control the upwell
and so oh well
here it goes again
i fall into verklempt land
my uncle taught me all about the place
he goes there quite often too, he's a gentle soul
like me, we both like chocolate milk shakes
and a good talk late in the evening
at family holidays where
we tell each other
all the important
things and how
we dearly love
our family.

you, fairy god-friend,
are to me, chosen family
i didn't know that could
be such sweet respite
but now well now
i truly know

and it is so good
and you are so dear
to me, in my
sappy, sodden heart.

now forgotten

wrote a poem while driving to look at a piano yesterday
finished it driving home
sharp notes lingering round my ears and eyes and fingers

didn't write it down
cleaned, fretted, chopped an onion and lost it in the tangled
million eternal moments of an evening with friends

this morning a small fire burned in my chest
a glass of wine too many
perhaps
or is it that small poem, whose name I still can't remember?
the title lead in to the rest of the piece

I don't usually do them that way.
But this one was special.

If I sit quietly and wait long enough,
will you please visit me again?

"Do you remember being little?"

He asked.

She curled her knees closer inside of her arms, one hand still holding a half empty glass of wine. The others had scurried to their cars parked on the street of by the new apartment, dripping with rain and leftover champagne.

She nodded.

"I remember my second grade teacher...I don't remember what, or why, exactly, but she was lovely. And I remember my third grade teacher. She loved the Iditerod Trail, she would look up the race stats every morning before school and move our figures on our wall so we would walk in each morning and know who's racer was in the lead, and whose racer had left the race. Every day, for the whole race."

They looked at each other in silence. He broke it off, he picked up his half of the loaf of bread.

"I remember nothing."

I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready I'm
she sang

and she wasn't, no, she wasn't

I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready I'm
she said

and she was maybe, but who could tell?

I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready I'M READY
SHE SHOUTED

& cried
& hoped
& hollered
& prayed
& doubted
& worried
& finally fell asleep

penpals

the only kind
of love I ever want to
fall into is the kind of love that begins
slowly and creeps over you until you can't wait
to wake up in the morning to check the mail it used to come
in the hands of a mailperson & now it comes in my handular device
i don't even get out of bed & my dog wants to be let into the backyard
but i want to know if you were thinking about me when you woke up
if you told me something new about your childhood
abroad & which college you thought i went to
and i want to know if i'm allowed
to send you another
letter now
or not

patience

waiting and waiting and waiting and wanting
not to be waiting
and wanting to be wanting
and waiting to not be wanting
and waiting for the wanting and the waiting to turn into
being

KD

july eleventh


today I'll plant lettuces
and a new round of dill
two kinds of peas, golden sweet and English wonder
some milkweed and purple annuals

laundry's put away,
sheets are in the dryer
dishes have all been stacked,
leftover pie crust baked
into small crescent moons
savory-- with mushrooms and thyme

I'll try not to wonder if you like mushrooms.


Later I could fold dish towels
and iron a few shirts
there's a pedagogy book to read
and stacks of music to practice
a candle to light, a prayer or two to send out
leftover pho for lunch

I'll do all this, and more too
to put off thinking about you

The Swedish sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns will take
ten or twelve hours-- that'll get me through
til tomorrow
unless
if I stop and remember this Christmas
when you told me about the design on my clogs
painted by hand by those damn Swedes
and how I found you so damn sweet

and you told me this spring how music was a reason to live
and I said, and so are clogs!
and you said, and so are mittens!

and oh, how I would make you so many pairs
of mittens
for your precious hands.


But I'm not thinking about this today,
or tomorrow, maybe not even until Saturday,
but it would be best to wait until Sunday.

yes, Sunday, I'll think about you then, perhaps.

v. the porch bed

it was respectable
to flop onto the porch bed
after a grueling summer day's activity
legs buckling from the strain of waterski, swim, bike,
volleyball, repeat, repeat, repeat


you were the coveted spot
the afternoon nap with waves and breeze
whispering through the screens
how many years of childhood
spent tearing up the lawn
dripping and yelping in delight
only to fall
silent
in line with the edge of the house
knowing you were there
and that you were occupied by a slumbering
grandmother
a most fearful creature,
neither to be awoken nor approached


strange, now,
to be allowed to walk
in the front door
sopping wet and grinning
but to go around back instead,
carefully, quietly,
peeing in to see if you are
still there

ii. long wharf

the first of the new poems I'll share today is this one, I wrote it in 2014 after my friend P.L. dumped me (we'd only dated a month, not a huge deal). The original version is pretty frustrated and bitter, and I never liked it much, but I revisited it this week, after getting to say hello to some old stomping grounds in Boston earlier this month. I like it better now. Enjoy...



ii. long wharf


long wharf up ahead
I've made it.


it's shittily dark already and I'm cursing the flimsy
fashionable leather boots I chose this morning
I cannot slip again--
the surgeon didn't have an answer
for why both sides of the ankle broke
clearly,
when it should have been a sprain.

let's take a moment
watch the planes come and go
departures and arrivals
it's why I came here
breath in, two, three, four
exhale


I tell my students, this exercise,
you can do anywhere.

The sailboats wait at their moorings; it's just us.
Battened down against the wind
and winter.
No one else was stubborn
or foolish enough
to join for the early sunset.

It's 2002, I'm twelve, and mom dragged me here sailing.
It's cold, we stop by rowes wharf not rose wharf but rowes wharf
how terrible is that
but we stop and she hands me something to drink
called chai and
it's spiced
warm
it makes me feel a hundred years old
and something like wild wonder
I've searched for it, for that shop,
but I've never found it quite like that
day, and before we were sailing, just
me, alone with my mother, but more
each of us alone with our thoughts
quietly sipping our paper cups
full of memories
some I've only lately come to remember


twelve years old and twenty-four years
young and I recoil at the jellyfish and
sweet brine scent of barnacles
matted rope at the dockside
but draw myself up against the wind
and grin


the planes glide up and down
I'm here
breathing
counting
waiting
safe

new shit

...been a while... but I'm back to writing poems, one every week or so, and feeling brave enough to put them out to the universe again. This year already, I've read poems aloud twice, which is a lot for me. Songs are easy, I can sing my way through any story and heartache, but just saying words aloud...aye, there's the rub.

it's been a tumultuous few weeks in my summetime life...and this week I've been back home in Austin taking naps with Honey dog by my side and letting all of the happenings and emotions swirl around settle into what they really are to me. Only some of them are really that important, the others fall to the sidelines. But it all takes time. Sleep helps. So does a little beer. And rom coms.

Anyhoo, it's good to be back on the blog. To all you dear readers out there, hello, and thanks for journeying with me.