Bloom
The carnation buds have not yet begun to open their puckered mouths. They are pregnant with the promise of blooming, but it is cold, and they are not yet ready. My daughter cups each one in her tiny palm, whispers— It’s ok, you can grow. She breathes gently on the plant’s tight little fists, even though I have never taught her to do this, even though I kill every flower I touch. The world has a bitter bite, now. It chomps at my heels— the reason I lace up my shoes and run until I cannot breathe. But here in my own kitchen is a tender beholding, a gentle exhale, an open palm holding stubborn possibility. Do you see? There is still some kindness left. There still remain those who will bend to help another soul bloom. This is what I think about as I finally slow to a walk, as I pass under the weeping willow, as its branches bend to stroke my hair like a mother.
Welcome Home
Jillian Stacia
when Anxiety finally leaves, suitcase in hand like a banished lover, i have the whole house to myself i lavish in the quiet shake out the dust in the rug throw open the windows slide across the floor in ragged wool socks i tear weeds from the garden watch daffodils spring up from the still-cold earth dance by the flame of a candle at night i fix myself a three-course dinner break out the fancy china and lick the plate clean i fall asleep to the sound of cicadas, wake up to the warbler’s song feel each breath in my chest rising up like a Blessing.
Spring with my Daughter
The breeze moves her hair, my name is called from her lips Mama, come and play. We jump for hours. My body begs for relief but she is worth it. Birds chirp in the trees, our dog barks, and sticky hands hold popsicles sticks. Spring is here.
How to Deal with Change
1. Develop a healthy coping strategy
On Sunday morning I go
shopping to find something
(anything) that fits who I am now
or maybe who I want to be
I try on wide-leg jeans and crop
tops and cry in the dressing
room instead of in church
2. Take an inventory
My husband has a spreadsheet
of what is staying and what is going
(the unnecessary, the extra
weight, the worn out)
He says it gives him a sense of control
“Do we need a spreadsheet
for our relationship?” I joke
3. Find the metaphor
I thought the hurricane killed
the periwinkle bush but she
has spread and multiplied
She didn’t succumb to the force
of the wind and rain
she used it to her advantage
The purple blooms sway
to a beat I can’t hear but
I swear they are saying
Just look at us nowdoes anyone ever escape their own mind
I clatter in a pyxis of my own making— manic mind, frozen body. I’d rather be on the outside looking into this dragon’s lair than circling myself, damsel in distress and serpent both. I trace ransom notes and rescue messages in my fogged-up breath, But no prince storms the tower, no warrior braves the hydra. I pry the bricks loose with my own bitten-off fingernails, scrabble through the ashes to my own rebirth.
Middle Place Ponderings
Were Mary and Martha soldiers to Lazarus’ tomb, watchkeepers of dusty roads, cursing Jesus’ delay? Did Hannah stroke her (empty) belly, counting its flat and lifeless days? Did Joseph ask why God abandoned him in a foreign land’s prison, wishing his technicolor coat belonged to a brother? Did Noah beg God for rain to stop, choking on stench & cramp & dark & undulation? Did Jonah beg for mercy -- death or miraculous recovery -- perching on a whale’s spongy belly and wiping (stinging) stomach acid from his eyes? Did Esther pace while the king decided if he would see her, struggling to breathe with pressure mounting like a tsunami’s wave? Did Joshua doubt the walls would tumble, counting (towering) stones one by one? Did Daniel recoil from the lions, imagining which tooth would cut sharpest? A little longer now stay stronger, somehow. Waiting until when? Wading through til’ then. Between // almost // middle // not quite // (how) will this end?
Night Sweats
Night sweats are super cool. (scientifically speaking) Wait for it. (like you have a choice) It takes decades to lower the temperature, to be a woman who throws back the sheets and begs the ceiling fan to make mist with the beads that have blanketed the surface of her being. It takes almost 50 years, to mostly be exact, if you’re feeling funny and precise. (women and math, am I right?) You somehow surrender yourself to tossing and turning in the discomfort of indecision, admitting you’re freezing right after you scream at the heavens and all in holy residence that you’re roasting. A real hot take. Ya should’ve shouted that one all the way to hell, if you wanted to be heard or understood or in good company. But it’s the suspense of wondering if you’ll ever get some freaking sleep— because the babes have been suckled and settled and turned teens. They can feed themselves, while you hunger for more— awake in the dark.
My Mind is a Kelpie
I thought it was a Labrador. A mind to kick back and snack. My kelpie savages, thwarts restraint. It races to worst case scenarios, rampages, digs and digs and digs. I want to be peaceful. But a farm dog doesn’t belong in suburbia. It needs a job. Quiet footfalls, birds chattering. Plinking piano keys. Rhythmic, repetitive breaststroke. Chaturanga. Pages scrawled in a journal before the household wakes. My kelpie approves. Too tired to cause trouble.
All Of It
How many lines are written on the transformation of a butterfly? Caterpillar to glorious wings, each time a wonder Or what of a toddler forehead pushed to mother's lips the tickle of wispy curls, chubby hand curled around arms made strong from carrying How many stanzas chronicle the blooms of a dogwood against a bright blue sky tight tulip buds unfurling into a carousel of color Sunset and sunrise sunset and sunrise each day a melody I could write anthologies filled with the magic of stories the knowing spark between eyes long-loved a friend's embrace on darkest days What is life if not poetry itself art within reach tender hand of God stretched toward broken man healing him with beauty All of it, a poem.
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All the feels in this collection. It’s a joy to write with you ladies!
Gah! It is a season unto itself, these here beauties budding and bursting from the page! Thank you so much for making a space for poetry to sing.