A CIRCLE CAN’T HAVE CORNERS
unless one stands with one foot on either side of the line, facing true north (or whatever your faith tells you to be true in the absence of a compass) in which case you may feel one foot become distinctly warmer, and you will be faced with a decision to sing Johnny Cash or Footloose. To hold still is not an option because you’re just realized the ground is separating beneath you like in an action film. Your heel is teetering on the corner of the round earth. Dance.
(NOT belated!)
ANCHOR
I.
Sailors are buried at sea
and it is said
their faces appear in the waves
for days
following the ship
that bore them
from their homes
II.
A day of chilled spring rain
and the worms creep
like question marks
from their earthy homes
but they lose their way,
find themselves underfoot
or out to dry
what keeps them coming?
why is home not enough?
III.
When he was born, I said
look at his chin
a perfect replica of his father’s
they were the only words I could find
after two days of waves crashing
over me, after a red rope seam
was stitched into my belly
that kept me pressed into my bed.
IV.
Evening night glints
on a glass frame
that face is gone
though the glass frame
cradles the photo
holds it tight to itself
as if closed eyes
could return what was lost
V.
The faces in the waves
fade eventually
and the ship is free
to choose its own direction.
FIRE WHIRL
Peshtigo, WI – October 8, 1871
When Chicago burned, so did we.
Our bodies froze in the river
where we hid our skin from flame
and held our breath until our lungs
broke open and our mouths chewed ash.
Updraft and fall,
wind solid as locomotive steel
twisted, wound, concentric
and tossing houses in the air
only to drop them to wreckage.
A fire whirl, they called it later–
a name as light as dancing,
as though a dervish had spun through
after a dry season and kindled
the fields, jumping rivers gleefully.
In truth, the heat was a drill
chewing into every surface it could find,
and we closed our eyes against it
as though our eyelids stood a chance.
Note: This summer, while traveling around northern Michigan, I learned about the Peshtigo fire–an event most people outside of the Green Bay area have never heard of, in part because it occurred on the same day as the much more widely publicized Great Chicago Fire. Communities in Michigan (Manistee and Holland) also experienced fires that day. However, in truth, the Peshtigo fire destroyed more square acreage, more property, and took more lives than any of those other fires that day, and it remains the deadliest wildfire in American history, with a death toll of at least 1,200 and possibly as many as 2,500.
Today’s prompt was to write about the Narcissus myth, but since I already did that on my own, I decided to take a different approach and write about Echo, the nymph who loved him but couldn’t speak other than to repeat his words.
ECHO
Hello?
hello
Can I see you?
I see you
Are you trying to say something?
say something
I am!
I am
Wait–who is that in the water?
in the water
You’re so beautiful.
beautiful
I could just climb in
climb in
like wrapping myself in a wish
wish
If only I could be
I could be
steeped in your eyes, so much more
more
beautiful than the words
than words
my humble mouth could say to you.
to you
He has scribbled black Crayola all over
his face, a mask he grins through
with a front tooth missing. He announces
he is now Captain Baby Pants
and that he has no super powers,
but I beg to differ.
He has strength enough to stretch me
into previously unmarked territory:
my personal Antipodes, cluttered
with old luggage, tarnished silver
and staircases leading to parts unknown.
He has a mighty grip as he takes my hand
and navigates a parking lot or a psychiatrist’s office.
He can metamorphose into any beast
or being, and his voice is a sonic boom
felt in other hemispheres.
And at times, he fades into opaqueness
which is even more deceptive than invisibility
because while I can see him clearly,
I lose what’s behind his eyes.
But I scoop him up with my own mom-like strength
because it’s bath time
and I’m still discovering his secret identity.
Catch-up day!
MEDUSA BOUND
Mirrors be damned. You ran
your hands through your untamed hair
without fear of poison. The wide, slitted eyes,
the teeth, they knew better, knew
they’d be swinging in the wind
without you. It was good to be needed.
Besides, you knew yourself as a reflection
and had no need of a glass.
Men’s faces twisted into your likeness–
you ran a finger over the granite lines,
smoothed their brows, tested the edge
of their teeth. They stayed warm
a long time.
This week has been rough on my writing–both my younger son and I have had a cold, which left me exhausted at the end of each day. I did write Day 16 on Monday, but was so tired by the end of the day that I couldn’t bring myself to fire up my laptop and post it. So here it is today, with subsequent catch-up poems to come in future posts!
THE HALLWAY
She is a walking memory
embedded in dust. A scratch
in a wood floor. A held breath.
She passes the doorway
in dignified procession, hands folded,
no heavier than a dust mote’s footstep.
What draws her here,
even in daylight
when other wisps have spent themselves
and retired to debris? What story casts her
to walk this hallway
in only one direction
like a message in a closed bottle?
Halfway there!
Today’s official prompt had me thinking about villains…and for some reason, only Narcissus came to mind. I know he’s not a real villain, but I followed the thought.
AFTER ECHO
Narcissus loved more than himself.
He loved the water for holding
his reflection so tenderly
and the muddy banks for their slope.
He let his fingers sink in as he knelt,
the cool ooze between them and under
his palms, he imagined them to be flesh.
He loved the sun for tousling his hair
and warming his bare shoulders
and the breeze for stroking his back.
He closed his eyes, brows raised
and lips parted, as the world
embraced him as a lover would.
SPRING IN MICHIGAN, 2018
They said rain was coming today,
freezing on the way down
into pellets. We prepared
for heaven’s ammunition,
bundled up at home. We moaned
about spring in Michigan
and global warming.
We cleaned things
since it’s spring, after all,
and that’s what you do in spring
in Michigan when you’re home
waiting for an ice storm
that never came. We felt cold
burn our skin when we
investigated, but the pavement
was dry. Tentative steps
to the mailbox, the way
you can’t just shake off
the memory of being a target.
After a looooong day, this one was a bit of a cheat. I’d started this poem some time ago, but finished it today. So that counts, right?
BEAR THE WEIGHT
Pain is weight. Anger is weight. It sinks us daily
sometimes, and I claw for air.
There may only be moments of breath
before he spirals down again.
As a mother, I bear the weight.
First the pediatrician, then the psychologist.
There are theories, medications, occupational therapy
for a beautiful boy with brown eyes and invisible anchors
tied to his body. He’s too young, they say,
for a solid diagnosis. We wouldn’t want a label
pulling him down.
As a mother, I bear the weight.
I put my arm around his shoulder.
He rests his head against me and we sink
into the couch together. He smells like
feet and the Oreos that he ate after dinner
that still linger at the corners of his mouth.
In the recesses of his mind, the one
that wrings him limp from one moment
to the next, that I have to remind myself
is in more control of this than either of us,
I pray he knows
with my tired body
and my dented heart
I will bear the weight.
Issa M. Lewis 