I should—according to someone somewhere—be wrapping presents or baking that lemon tart I promised my oldest son. I should be doing something festive! Something communal! I should be finding my solitude less delightful. None of these ‘shoulds’ belong to me, though. They pop sometimes on the periphery of my mind, but I’m mostly ignoring them. Instead, I’ve been relishing having a couple days to myself and have been writing rather a lot of poems. Here are a few of them—my gift to you this season. The first two were inspired by prompts (“the table” and “dreamscape”) from Kaitlin Curtice. The second two just rose up like smoke as I sat by a fire.
Photo by Cullan Smith on Unsplash
The Table It was Thanksgiving at the table, and we walked in, my son and I, and your head jerked up, and you spoke the first words you’ve uttered since those angry texts. You were eager to talk now, elated to claim that “there is no room,” which didn’t seem right when I tallied the chairs, but what’s the use in tallying? I’ve never wanted this fight. So we walked back out, my son and I, and we sat on the couch and made tables of our laps, and I replay that moment sometimes, the sting of it and the wondering why, but also the warmth of my child and the plate on my lap and the knowing that my heart is a table, and there is plenty of room - even for you. Solstice The world is matte and blurred from smoke or haze or the reluctance of dawn after the longest night, as if the land had tossed and turned, then finally slept and now can’t bear the thought of light so soon. I walk into the sleep-blurred world like into a dream. I crunch my feet on frozen mud to see if I’m awake and puff great clouds of breath to know that I’m alive. A dog barks over and over, Three short yips, then a vowel as long as a rooster’s tail. The dog crows and breaks the dawn of the first day after the longest night. The dark lid begins to lift. A blue eye peers through heavy clouds. Today, I will pinch myself and remember that I am awake. Today, I will pinch myself and remember to dream. Lunar Halo There’s a ring in the sky, Glowing and round. A black belly, its navel gibbous from the pulling of skin. Jupiter is a freckle. The clouds make silver stripes— stretch marks. Love marks, I once heard them called. I have twelve in front. I can’t account for what’s behind. Uranus is invisible to the naked eye. Kindling My feet are bare and cold against the cold, bare ground. My hands snap twigs for kindling. If I worked faster, if I had more hands, the sound might be mistaken for the crackling of fire. I wish you were here with me, though I don’t know who you are. Someone who knows to sidle up to my solitude without making too much noise.
I’d love to hear from you in the comments! How are you navigating this season, with its frequent undercurrents of too-much and never-enough? What’s feeling nourishing or joyful right now? What’s feeling hard? What have you created lately? What are you dreaming of creating in the season ahead?
Thank you, Lisa, for making us a gift of your poems! There's something I really love in each one of them. Like "the reluctance of dawn." And "Someone / who knows / to sidle up to my / solitude / without making too much noise." Hoo boy, I get that one! And I'm pretty sure that someone is out there. :-) Wishing you many blessings in the new year.
Beautiful! DooDad