For fear and motherhood and poetry, from the pedestrians, and a thank you to Ms. Mark for this book.
from please alice notley tell me how to be old / by Rachel Zucker
& the sharp fear I feel
when my son does not call when he said he would
–how can any mother write an epic when — my
fear receding behind his small-voiced apology (a
little nodule in my right breast) safe — when I’m
so terribly interruptible
For the day’s way of clearing the clouds and blue-ing the sky, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Who Has Seen the Wind? / by Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
For our poet-nurse, amazing Catherine, from Keeping My Name.
from Chemist’s Daughter / by Catherine Tufariello
Thumping the dinner table, Dad would say
it too was atoms – massed in galaxies
made mainly of empty space.
For trying to reach back through the years to parent your own younger self, from The Star by My Head: Poets from Sweden, edited and translated by Malena Mörling and Jonas Ellerström.
from Hold Him There / by Bruno K. Öijer
I had phoned my childhood
listened to the dial tone that went through
and when my mom answered
I asked to speak to myself
For these best clouds ever, which we rarely see here, from poetryfoundation.org. And, this one’s for the magical Kay Ryan, who I met in Lancaster, California, when she read at her community college alma mater, and later in Key West, when she read and spoke and paneled at the 2010 Key West Literary Seminar.
from Cloud / by Kay Ryan
From inside the
forest it seems
like an interior
wholly to do
For caves at the bottom of lakes and grief as large as mountains, from Poetry, April 2017.
from Dear, Beloved / by Sumita Chakraborty
It would be winter, with a thin snow. An aged sunbeam
would fall on me, then on a nearby summit, until a mass
of ice would come upon me like a crown of master diamonds
in shades of gold and pink.
For a brightness that sometimes happens, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Spring, the sweet spring / by Thomas Nashe
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring