Shallot Therapy

Faint lavender skins burst under polished blade
(heavy-handled, carbon-steel, razor-sharp friend)
releasing potent fragrance into the air,
provoking fraudulent tears.

Oil and butter sizzle in lustrous pan
(heavy-duty, stainless-steel, All-Clad ally)
awaiting crisp secret circles chopped to pieces,
Sing shallots, sing your delightful swan song.

A Lullaby for Kimani

On July 26, 2008 I stumbled upon these verses. Kimani was battling meningitis and no one was sure yet who would win. Next to the verses I had written the date and the words, "A little lullaby for Kimani".

A song of ascents.
I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;

the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.

Psalms 121: 1-8

Fell Down Today

A little something for Poetry Friday



Fell Down Today
I cannot cry, for if I do
Some one will say
Have you ever seen a child
with or without a this or a that
to make him whole?
Back to the truth
I cannot go, for if I do
My mind will say
Have you ever noticed that
a whole with no W
is just empty space
deep in my heart?
Fell down today, so down today.


Thanks Raffi for your endless inspiration.

Anyday

Wash some dirty dishes
Gather up rumpled clothes
Diaper a soft pink bottom
Change the sheets
Pluck a few stray eyebrows
Wonder why
Feed hungry mouths
Drink some black tea
Pick crumbs off the couch
Change the batteries
Read Moo Baa La La La again
Wander room to room
Barely balance an account
Shampoo little brown curls
Pass out vitamins
Write a couple lines of code
Kiss husband hello or goodbye
Scribble a grocery list
Wish vaguely
Sweep up dried playdough chunks
Empty the dishwasher
Fold warm scented laundry
Brush sixty-eight teeth
Type a blog post
Lay my head down
Whisper a prayer
Get one day closer

Liar

Liar

He came stealthily, consistently
whispering in her ear
You will love it, Liar said.
It being most anything to
cripple, consume, destroy her.
Maybe she tried not to hear
Maybe I tried not to see
and yet,
their pact grew stronger

He came disguised as mother
whispering in her ear
Take my hand, Liar said,
the abyss is not that far
and I am here to guide you
Maybe she tried not to follow
Maybe I tried not to look
nevertheless,
her hands grew colder

Liar came and away she went
whispering in his ear
At last my love, she said
we’ll do those things you promised
together, consumed, destroyed
Maybe she’s trying to forget
Maybe I cannot remember
either way,
my small heart is cracked

Orchid

Unlike our wild boy weeds
who shall grow strong
and burst into golden buds
with or without,

You, beautiful child,
are the exotic orchid
whose delicate blossoms
must be coaxed into bloom
by dappled sunlight.

You, exquisite child,
rooted in enriched soil,
watered with joyful kisses,
pruned by love’s touch,
will flower enchantingly.

You, precious child,
are the sweet fragrance
that delights our senses
and pollinates adoration
in this family’s garden.

(Orchid photo by Greg Allikas, used with permission)

Other Random Acts of Poetry:
Mom2six's poem by her 8-year-old daughter
Andy C's For Me
Lavonda's What is Required
Marcus reads excerpts from T. S. Eliot's Ash Wednesday
nAncY's On the Road
L.L. Barkat's Life, Ect.

Nursing - Part 1

It is a Friday...Random Acts of Poetry Day...so I will start off with a not-quite-a-poem that is sort of the happily ever after to the story I will tell you today (which is a response to L.L. Barkat's Blogger Be Brave post.)

Finally
We lie together
stomach to stomach, and more
Delicate nose lifts up
‘ore rise of swollen breast
Eyes are watching
one another, locked
in shared fragility,
Sweet milk is flowing
to the rhythm...
suck suck swallow breathe
United in the moment,
eyelids swaying
Both mother and child
are coaxed to sleep
by love’s nourishing bonds...
suck suck swallow breathe

Once upon a time, when she had just arrived, she suckled against me, instinctively drawing in the liquid gold. I imagined she was imprinting, smelling, tasting, feeling softness of skin, connecting...mother...mother. And then sleep stole over her.

(Picture deleted... one of my guy friends hinted that he was "a little freaked out" by the picture that suggested a newborn was nursing...sorry boys!)

She did not eat again that night. In the morning they took her from me. I found her in the NICU and offered her more sweet milk. But, as if she were content to sleep her life away, she suckled no more.

Hovering over me the words came like spikes. “She doesn’t know how” “Her mouth is too small.” “Her tongue is too big.“ “It’s too much work” “It’s the Down Syndrome” they said.

I sat alone in a tiny room, with an occupied sign on the door for a lock, and fumbled with clear tubing and other parts. Smooshing hard cup to breast, I flipped the switch on the metal motor. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Sprays of milk captured in small plastic bottles. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Sprays of tears captured in an olive green cotton maternity shirt.

By four days old, feeding had become a dance of missteps. Despite the thin snake-like green tube taped to her cheek, climbing up her nostril, hanging down the back of her throat and winding into her stomach, she showed interest in my offerings. She would root toward me, opening her mouth and poking out her tongue. Her mouth couldn’t open wide enough. Her tongue wouldn’t stay down. She could not latch on to me no matter how I squeezed or flattened my flesh. We’d go through the motions until she tired out and nodded off, or until I felt guilty enough to move to the next step, the bottle.

Although she was my third baby, I had to be guided along...told how to hold it, how to move it and what not. There is a trick to holding the cheeks and applying pressure under the chin that is supposed to elicit a good latch and suck. It felt forced and my tiny baby gagged in agreement. My hands were shaking and I was overcome with sorrow.

Still hovering, nurses attempted to console me, “They are almost all like this.” They. They. Children with Down Syndrome...They. I wanted to yell out that my baby is not a “they”. She is more than a syndrome. She is her own person. But what do I know about this and besides I was choking on bile by then anyway. The nurse could see that I was frustrated and near tears and she wrote on the day’s medical sheet that mother was not accepting the diagnosis well.

RAP participants:
Nancy's Awaken
Jim's August Evening
Andy's Would You Have Known Him
LL's Scarlet
Erica's Red
Megan Willome

Grandmother...

All that is left designating me third generation
The final barrier between child and grownup
Let me play here a while longer.

Fifty four years separate us, forever one day will
Then, no longer a grandchild, I will create them
for someone else’s smiles.

Your very oldness protects my youth,
sheltering me, where mistakes are easily forgiven
and parents aren’t truly grand, yet.

Put your hand in mine, Grandma, and keep it warm
Open your eyes and look at me, your grandchild
I am ready you say, but I am not I reply.

For when you are gone who will say of me,
This is my darling granddaughter, isn’t she beautiful?
Going with you, I the grandchild, will cease to be.

I wrote this not-quite-a-poem some years ago... before I had my children and while my grandmother was still alive. She died this past spring thus promoting me up a link in the chain of life. I miss her soft, gnarled hands twisted like tree roots and her wrinkliness. I miss her distinct German voice accentuating my name. I miss her thick, approving love. I knew I would miss being a granddaughter.