I pull the baby
in a blue plastic car
along the empty dirt road
beneath the inverted
basin of a sky
two things are blue—
one small
one enormous
the baby has a fate
I can’t read
she likes to open
a board book
then
put it in her mouth
the world has
gone to hell
and left us here
like shells
tossed up by a storm
to litter the tide’s wrack line
a pair of unmatched
ridged
bivalvular
angel wings
one big
one little
This started out as prose–one of my off the cuff blog posts that I enjoy if I can get to the heart of something. However, it wasn’t working and just felt too clunky. Revised into a poem–and sharing it here. I’ll never know exactly why certain things work better in poetry or in prose–a matter of rhythm maybe–but I enjoy the process.
Take A Note
I’m asleep,
which is fine by me.
However, I’m concerned
about whether or not
you are actually dead.
I try and figure it out.
You must be dead,
because I saw your corpse.
Because the coroner
released your body for cremation.
But I’m unsure,
because, well,
it seems we’ve had
coffee together
several times
since you died.
In cafes.
It hasn’t been
pleasant,
because you persist
in telling me
that even though you are alive
you don’t love me any more
and are breaking up with me.
The main reason
I’m upset by this is that—
my story has changed.
It’s no longer the story
I’m committed to,
that you loved me
and died.
When I wake up
my second husband
offers me hot cereal,
and a bunch of copy editing notes.
My grand daughter,
actually she is yours too
but you’ll never know it,
sleeps on my knee
under a red and blue quilt.
She’s picked the batten
out of worn spot.
I like that in a baby.
Please don’t tell me
how Buddhism and physics
agree—there is no “you.”
Say what you will,
but I’m under the quilt too,
wondering if it
will snow again.
old fruit tree
propped on a crutch
like a legless veteran
drunk
in a doorway
on the temple grounds
line of stone buddhas
expressions
weathered out
I try
to not just be
a tourist—-offer coins
in the box
but pass the beggar
anyway
I can’t tell
if I had the childhood
of a good person
or a less good one
but please
don’t trouble yourself
too much
after all
I’ve come this far
on my own
already.
A NEW SIGHT
Tell me your secrets
darkness, open
your guarded gates
and let me glimpse
behind the towering fears
and boogeymen
who haunt my daydreams,
cloud my vision
so that I might watch
my life through a lens
freed of rainbows
or the glittering sun
on a summer pond,
instead, show me how black
is the perfect
backdrop to reflect
the stars mirrored in the retina
of our souls.
Ya’el Chaikind
4.12.18
Omer Day 13:
Yesod Shebe Gevurah
Foundation within Strength, Boundaries, and Discernment
Just published in https://sheilanagigblog.com/volume-2-3-spring-2018-the-poets/miriam-sagan/
Click to read more!
Sex Trade and a Very Small Earthquake
at 1am it woke me
more the house moving
than the earth itself
loud noise
screens rattling
on the way to the grocery store
my son-in-law and I
saw a long line of silent men
looking like a queue for bread
standing outside a tiny door
advertising women
and the price
this is just
a few feet from
from the fish stall,
more than sixty years and half a world
away
from my cautious worried
life as a woman
where one wrong turn
leads to dangerous DANGER
slippage
now old
I’m sleeping
beneath my drying clothes
pink sweater
which is another body
fluttering at the window shade
and swaying
like a gull
that looks down
on islands
and sees the ocean floor
tremble
Joan Logghe wrote this yesterday in a high school class I was teaching. She came to intro me and stayed to write. Enjoy!
First World Worst Case Scenarios
Back on antidepressants in the first world
I sing “Placido Domingo” in my sleep
Last night I dreamed an apocalyptic triptych
All my dreams somehow sing opera
I sing “Placido Domingo” in my sleep
I advise chopping jalapenos
In all my dreams somebody is singing opera
Various cases of worst case scenarios
I am still chopping jalapenos
This is not a Jewish thing to do
rather various verses of worst case scenarios
I remain optimistic with high cholesterol
That is not a Jewish thing to do.
I drink a green drink, eat egg salad
I remain optimistic despite high cholesterol
Growing old is not a drag yet
I drink a green drink, eat eggs scrambled
It couldn’t get any sweeter that you
Getting old is not a drag yet
even though the Rolling Stones think so
It couldn’t get any sweeter than this
Last night I dreamed an apocalyptic triptych
Especially the Rolling Stones look weathered
Back on antidepressants in the first world
Finally On Our Own
river roll
under James Wright
bridges
freight train
crossing
in a dead language
I couldn’t begin
to claim kinship
confluence
of this
and something else
remnant
column
of a deteriorated
neo-classicism
an invisible
watershed, or wellspring
mid-western manners
what you wanted
was simply an insert
in an industrial scape
praise or curse
so far from the deserts
of my
awakening
wind, lead
coverlet, shroud
not everyone
lying down
was dead
some were
in the bathtub
some were dreaming
on the dotted line
a nameless bird
flew
from here to there
unaware
of the horizon.
