You celebrate the first steps
which look like what they are,
a controlled fall. Eyes wide
in joy, in disbelief.
The steps grow varied
in pace in path in purpose.
You're often alone, doing your best
to keep moving somewhere somehow.
Eventually you walk without thinking,
your horizons & paths narrowed--
appointments not destinations.
In rare moments, your eyes open,
your feet fly, knowing nothing
can hurt you till you stand still.
The doors are heavy, falling shut with a slow ease & finality. The space is sacred to some, to those who work it, to those who hope to cast the spell.
Every theater has its own relic’d beauty–loose hinges on the front & center seats, faded fluorescent tape marking the limits of characters long silent, scarred lines marking the props dragged season after season.
The heights are seen only by the lucky. Sandbags & catwalks, lights & innumerable cords. Rows of scrims, depths of story, layers of place.
You get on stage with the rest of this unkempt bunch, untied Converse shoes & loose t-shirts. You shake the tension from your shoulders & join hands, centering yourself in this song & dance, this ceremony seen only by the lucky, performed only by this loving few.
Let us play.
Thanks to Ruben Quesada for the guidance during a workshop in July 2022, when I wrote a lot, including this draft, when he challenged us to capture a time of joy.
Tell yourself as it gets cold & gray that it is going to pay off. The planning & grading, the commenting & designing, the paperwork & meetings. For you there's the chance to reset over & over. New units, new semesters, new years, new courses, December punctuated loudly with good news from seniors, a future they hoped & worked for, acceptance, relief. Tonight as it gets cold, count the days, and know that there is never enough time and that there is always just enough time. It resolved, or it didn't in ways you'll never know. They learned & they struggled in ways you'll never know. And you'll start it all again sooner than you can imagine. And if it happens that you cannot reconcile yourself to this necessary end, this final weeks, then delight in the joy of your students, for whom-- in the best possible ways-- you were just another adult standing in the current of their lives, guiding them, and telling them, Good morning. Good job. Goodbye.
She had high hopes for a tree that flowered.
So many in this neighborhood were planted
for another place, dense canopies
you might see in a movie or
in some part of town
richer & older.
She hired an arborist, a kind & fussy man
who called each tree by its Latin genus name,
who spoke surprisingly good Spanish
to his crew scurrying high above,
chainsaws swinging heavily
from their loose belts.
They removed the old tree, its spiky circular spores
tucked in the grass for years after. She watched
as they lifted the new tree from the bed of the truck,
a canvas bag diapering its thin roots.
They drove spikes into the earth surrounding
the hole, upturned & fragrant. The roots of the old tree
were left to wither in the unseen deep.
She imagined the burst of color to come.
The tree grew & flowered, less bright
than she had hoped. A freak cold snap
historic & long chilled the tree to the core.
Her husband watched it for weeks,
certain something could be saved.
Different men were hired to make rough cuts,
feeding the fallen branches into a machine
at the curb, mulching them briskly
right before their eyes, dust catching
in the brittle grey grass.
It grew the next year thick with leaves
near the trunk. Branches will come anew,
they thought, will come later.
It flowered as before. It flowers
each year, waving gently
in the piercing Texas sun.
“I think everyone should be able to pick a word that moves them, and occupy it” (Eileen Myles, in the afterword to this anthology)
My word came to me late, in a language I don’t know. I can’t write it, and I do a poor job saying it: רוּחַ. Ruach, that is, spirit, unless it means wind, or unless it means breath, or unless it means something else.
I’d like to be that רוּחַ heard before it’s felt, almost never seen, energized & untroubled by obstacles. Even those windbreaks I’ve seen (straight, high in their fields) are flat & small in the full force of a vast & powerful רוּחַ.
I’d like to be that רוּחַ that swells & enlivens each living being. Enriching the blood imperceptively, autonomically, feeding each cell from head to tail, then disappearing, returning seconds later all life long.
I’d like to be that bold רוּחַ I once was, alive in the spirit. G-d moves within me, I’m certain, though it’s been a while since I occupied the spirit, since I prayed with that presence, since I prayed for that presence, since I prayed. The spirit calls often & in ways unimaginable. Let all who hear it come, let those who are thirsty come drink the רוּחַ like water, drink it without pride.
This varied earliest holy רוּחַ … the word came to me long after I’d felt it, long after I’d embodied it, long after it had blessed me. The idea, the promise, the gift of רוּחַ has always been here. Bringing natural beauty nearer, filling my chest, nourishing the smallest most intimate parts of me, blessing & keeping me.
We were lined up by height, walking somberly to the altar, pews filled with proud parents. Back then Granny couldn’t afford much, but she got me an Avon Batman brush as a gift. I was at home here. Praying, singing, kneeling, and being filled with the spirit. In the photo of our class that day, I am toothless, looking off camera. I know I was happy. Back then Granny couldn’t afford much, but she got me an Avon Batman brush as a gift. I imagine now the Avon lady coming to her door, Granny sitting by the room unit, looking over the catalogue page by page. In the photo of our class that day, I am toothless, looking off camera. I know I was happy. Years later, we found out what the priest had done to that community, to those kids. I imagine now the Avon lady coming to her door, Granny sitting by the room unit, looking over the catalogue page by page. What do you get a child? What do you get this child? What will his parents think? Years later, we found out what the priest had done to that community, to those kids. The parents, horrified in their blind trust. The newspapers laying bare the worst. What do you get a child? What do you get this child? What will his parents think? The trial stretched out. We knew the name of the priest--the children’s names, only whispered guesses. The parents, horrified in their blind trust. The newspapers laying bare the worst. And one lingering memory: A priest doing chin-ups on the blacktop, children beneath him, counting. The trial stretched out. We knew the name of the priest--the children’s names, only whispered guesses. We moved to the church across town. It was the first of several moves my parents made on principle. And one lingering memory: A priest doing chin-ups on the blacktop, children beneath him, counting. And a memory my mother shared only recently: Shouting at the pastor in the rectory, slamming the door. We moved to the church across town. It was the first of several moves my parents made on principle. An unnecessarily partisan homily here, an unwelcoming community there. Where is the life of the spirit? And a memory my mother shared only recently: Shouting at the pastor in the rectory, slamming the door. These cloistered virgins were in over their heads. I almost pity them. I tried to love them. An unnecessarily partisan homily here, an unwelcoming community there. Where is the life of the spirit? My parents, hungry for the body of Christ, made a home that seems now like an answered prayer. These cloistered virgins were in over their heads. I almost pity them. I tried to love them. What could they know about the faithful? Didn’t they know this passing stop for them was home for us? My parents, hungry for the body of Christ, made a home that seems now like an answered prayer. Where two or three are gathered together in His name, G-d is there. You felt it. You knew it. What could they know about the faithful? Didn’t they know this passing stop for them was home for us? Some have married. Some have died. Some moved on. Two that blessed me then are now in prison. These days I walk down the aisle rarely. But I still believe. And I pray that I go in peace to love & serve. This is my first pantoum ever, a kind of return to this moment. The title is from Psalm 34:8.
Like many things in fall 1988, this all starts in a dark smoky place. A cafe near campus. She has opinions & confidence, long brown hair, shockingly bright blue eyes. Katie. We moved to Chicago together years later, mining that time in your twenties when everything seems possible, nobody's married yet, and all we had was time, cigarettes, some money, and each other. Another writing exercise limited by one's phone number--each digit provides the number of words allowed per line. I wrote about this same relationship before, at its beginning & at its near-end.
When you’re young, you find inspiration in anyone who’s ever gone & opened up a closing door. A door shutting you out of authority or freedom, fun or prestige. A door, you imagine, that closes on important decisions related to you alone. So you relish that moment of an opening even if you don’t know what you’ll do there, even if you’re not ready to step in.
Sometimes, you’re better off in your part of the house, knowing (or discovering when it’s time) that the doors of your life are many, are wide, that they’ll open soon enough, perhaps even after you’re ready. You won’t even need to knock.
***
When you’re young, you laugh easily, loudly, sometimes at exactly the wrong moment. You feel the flush come over your ears, the tears come to your eyes. If you’re with friends, you might even get hit–the line you crossed comes at a cost, comes with a short sharp correction or recognition.
Sometimes you’re better off making sure the joke is goofy, that it’s not just a celebration of you, your cleverness. Sometimes you’re the life of the party by force. It’s okay to listen, to be kind, to be curious. You can settle for smiles instead.
***
When you’re young, candy is a reward. It’s surprisingly big. A Snickers bar is the length of a child’s forearm. A limb of chocolate. You savor & you save. The house has a drawer of sweets if you’re lucky. My house has a shocking amount of candy. Way more than I grew up with.
Sometimes you’re better off sharing it, a cake that the family slices, a gallon of ice cream that everyone scoops. There’s nourishment in this.
***
When you’re young, you put names & decorations on things. Your sheets & your pajamas, your curtains & luggage, your breakfast food & plates are adorned with cartoons & color. The process of aging is a narrowing of the imagination & the palette. You become more subtle, more calm, more quiet in the colors of your life, to the greying of your hair, your face, and the final greying which is permanent.
Sometimes you’re better off seeing through the lens of youth. Possibilities & joys open up. There’s probably even a part deep within your eye, cones & rods, there’s probably even a part deep within your mind, neurons on notice, that (re)awakens with color, with each color, with cacophonies of color. All in one place, all shimmering rainbow rainbow rainbow.
I'm thick in blood, and my heart pounds too hard. I wake sometimes with rapid drumming in my chest. My wife sleeps beside me, the dog nestled near., my children in their rooms, sprawled, sweating with an energy inexhaustible. Each child, each of us, a life anew, a lens through which to see the world we'll leave one day too soon. To love is to confront & frustrate mortality. Each child, a stone placed on the broad earth. Each child a dimple on the cheek of it all.
There's a path that's clear & clean. You know you could walk it, could decide that this path would mean something, if just for a minute. The close packed dirt feels solid, like a route meant for you, each step, each crack reveals that others before you came to just this spot, came to a flowering of their life as natural as any failure or pain that stings even in the remembering. At last, step by step, the brightness comes, or a rustling you didn't hear before, and you know that this wandering from where you were is your new life course. A project where students take a screenshot of a row of photos in their camera roll, and compose a poem inspired by (but not describing) the photos left to right. My four photos are above, harvested on a walk on our school campus Tuesday 10/24/23.
middleagedmiddlechild. 
