Month: April 2020

This one was inspired by the NaPoWriMo prompt of the day, urging us all to example Jheronimus Bosch’s triptych, The Garden of Earthly Delights.

THE RABBIT LOOKS AWAY

After Jheronimus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights

 

Adam is short a rib, but now has a plus-one

for garden parties.  He reclines, surprisingly relaxed

after the ultimate outpatient procedure,

on the grass while the Creator takes Eve’s pulse—

must be sure everything is working as it should.

Eve the Rib is uncertain, eyes downcast.

It must be the uneven terrain

that forces her knees to the ground,

because surely these gentlemen

would never refuse to offer assistance

or comfort in this unfamiliar place.  Surely

the Creator would take her hand,

a divine and dazzling warmth,

and help her find her footing.  But Adam’s toes

tangle in the Creator’s robes like a playful child

and it is he who holds Adam’s gaze.

Even the rabbit, already granted his playboy bunny,

turns an indifferent tale to this farce

just beginning to be written.

 

LA GRIPPE

I imagine a stout, aging French lady reclining on a chaise with velvet upholstery, still looking en vogue in pink silk and lace and eyes lined to look like Bette Davis.  Just a touch of la grippe, she says, fluttering the back of her hand to her forehead.  How appropriate the word—grippe—the insidious viral fingers wrapping themselves around us, clenching until we ache.  Gasp. Wheeze.  Drink willow bark tea and turn our faces to the sky, hoping to breathe in any piece of it.  Maybe now we call it aspirin.  Or maybe now we take azithromycin and hydroxychloroquine and rest our heads on a gurney because the hospital beds are all taken.  Either way, we can hear la vie en rose in our heads and imagine ourselves in Paris.

I followed the NaPoWriMo prompt today (loosely) to generate a poem about dream imagery.  I feel like I may have to do several takes of this, because 1) my dreams are usually REALLY strange, and 2) I have several recurring themes in my dreams and have had them for years.  This encompasses a couple that I’ve had several times.

 

DREAM SEQUENCE

first I am aware

of existing

 

then I notice

the doors flung wide

 

so I sidle up

to the threshold

 

and call out

to my volleyball coach

 

from high school

who says

 

no water breaks

and when I protest

 

my teeth fall out

painlessly

 

into my hands

and I look at them

 

with scientific curiosity

not unlike

 

I examine the feeling

of existing

 

that started this whole thing

and the sense

 

that the doorway

does not lead

 

anywhere I wish

to go

 

I really did write this yesterday, but I wasn’t quite happy with it enough to put it up.  I tweaked it today, so here is a second draft:

TEACHING CAT

When I was young, my mother took night classes

at the local community college.  In one building they had

a dead, dissected cat under glass, splayed flat on its back,

paws wide as if in surrender.  Its now-brittle belly skin cut

and pulled back, rib cage cracked to teach humans

about its lungs, stomach, intestines, the dingy pinks

and browns dulled and yellowed by formaldehyde.

Its chin jutted upwards, hiding its eyes.  I wanted to know

if it had ever been loved, if a warm hand

had ever passed over the white fur

or if it had ever been called to its dinner

by a name someone chose for it.  But I hid

behind my mother’s legs, afraid to see

what was really inside, what was split wide open

and vulnerable.

AFTER THE VIRUS

Someone made a jar that said “after the virus” on it.  She’s putting tiny scraps of paper in it; ball-point scrawls of beaches and airplanes, or trips to the grocery store.  Mini-golf.  Concert tickets.  Things we can do when everything is done breaking apart.  We’ll arts-and-crafts it back together.  We’ll be the glue, the string, the popsicle sticks.  And when this is done, she’ll reach into the jar and pull out the world in its new shape.

It’s April 1, marking the beginning of National Poetry Month.  I always try to participate in National Poetry Writing Month and write a poem a day.  You’d think this year it’d be easy, with COVID-19 restricting us to our homes.  However, rather than a break, I find myself essentially doing at least two full-time jobs–my own actual job teaching (all moved online now), and then essentially homeschooling my children.  And somehow keeping the house from falling down.

Yesterday, on the eve of NaPoWriMo, I thought to myself, is there poetry to be found here?

Maybe, maybe not.  I’m willing to find out.

—————————————————————————————-

QUARANTINE, DAY 20

 

There are some things you can let go of.

This is what aloneness teaches us:

the value of your grasp,

what it chooses.  What falls away.

Windows, and how sometimes

they become mirrors.  Photos.

There are people outside here,

their hands on their windows

and their faces gentle,

bittersweet decisions.