5/30

In the warm plastic tunnels of our childhoods, static could strike at any moment—running doubled over in the smell of hot plastic and kids armpits, you can almost see the flash and always here the click of the shock—there are rumors of a toddler dying in here one 105 degree afternoon, the air too thick to inhale—in the odd colored light of the tunnels, it is easy to believe, and we choke on the possibilities we know will never happen to us—in the inferno of the Texas playground, we know everything is dangerous, everything will burn you, and we will rise again and again.

4/30--The Guard Speaks

Let me speak to you of paranoia—I am her instrument. Those eyes on the back of your neck are mine. Whisper in the dark and wonder if someone is listening— know that I am, and I’m writing it all down. It may be important. No one has ever studied you so closely, not even your mother in her obsessed first days of motherhood. I am an expert in every one of you. I psychoanalyze in my spare time based on your reading material, chronicle your health from my graphs on visits to the toilet. In the dark, I whisper your names and the time your have left with me—I know nobody is listening. This is not the life I would have chosen, but it is mine and I aim to be good at it.

3/30

Side note--by now you have all probably noticed that none of my first drafts have line breaks. It's 30/30, people--and breaks for me don't usually happen until draft 3ish. Sorry. Here's the poem:

On the corner of James and Kentucky, the chainsaw store’s open sign is still flashing. It is late, and the store is dark. My eyes swim, and it isn’t hard to imagine a world where this open sign could be taken for its word. Perhaps I would be dressed in un-cured leather astride some kind of ATV, perhaps on foot with a cut-off sheet tied strategically round me. In the world where chainsaw stores stay open this late, there are old newspapers perpetually drifting across the street and the stoplights don’t change anymore. The moon seems closer than it should, and its light unwholesome. I know that my home is only blocks away, but who knows how long it will take me to get there.

2/30

Dear Harold

with apologies to Evelyn Waugh

It is sad that we never meet now. How are you? I was in town just yesterday and would have come to see you but I heard you were away. I imagined you wheeling above the clouds in a hot air balloon of faded colors. I imagined you on Safari. I imagined you stranded in an oasis of paper with just a stub of a pencil. It is strange, is it not, how we imagine for each other the very things we dream of? I did not mean to burden you with my wishes. You will have to bear them as best you can. Toss a few sandbags from the side of your swinging basket; I know your vessel can take it. They will do better under your tender care. Forgive me—my novel keeps me up nights and I have no room for such large game.

1/30-Yes, I am getting started a little late.

Dear potential future daughter—I cannot even begin to conceive of you.

I am one of those women who love babies like oceans love coral reefs. I know that the world is full of promises like tiny fish and anenomes stretching towards plankton. I know that light filtered through water is the only real light. I know that when a human comes down in a mask that makes them see like they belong here, they are the last ones we should trust. This water, this water, it sounds from us like bells. Watch the waves, watch the ripples—we know this. A woman walks her toddler on the shore. Come, let us guzzle the footprints.

30 Poems in 30 Days!

Ah, National Poetry Month--a time when people actually pay attention to poetry (hopefully). Like many other poets, I will take this month as a challenge: 30 poems in 30 days. Go!

Snippets From NIWP Fellows from My Instructions about "Heat"

1
Wilted weed slumps
next to shimmering mirage

2
seed, far, far away from your home in the heavens.
You are lonely for your creator, separated by
galaxies and light years. You come to earth a spec
of dust and turned into a plant

3
The wicked witch melted
licked by the flames
of water--heat's nemesis

4
Hansel and Gretel
sent the witch away
cooking her

5
Warm milk at night is so much more than
another evening ritual. It is the heat of the
cream warming my lips, my throat, my being.
The heat of emotion--cozy and comforting like
my mother's arms after a thunderstorm

6
Descending lightly from its travels
it kisses my skin almost invisible
now it smacks my face, my chest
hard and strong whipping sweat from my pores.