Coming up the stairs
from the underground,
I take my usual route:
turn left into
the oil-stained alley,
walking beside
the greasey dumpsters
and over the shining glass shards.
Something soft and brown
moves near the edge of a dumpster.
A young rabbit,
wide-eyed, looks at me,
quivering, alert.
The rabbit turns and runs,
ducking in between the grease caddy
from Sabor Latino
and the liquor store dumpster
where cardboard boxes,
empty and cut open,
spill over the top.
Hastening, I circle the
big metal boxes
looking for the vanished rabbit.
I think of Alice,
suddenly confronted
by the March Hare.
Here in August
in the fetid city,
I’ve lost the rabbit.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Parents' words
All my adult life I have loved words. I find patterns in them, relish shaping them, look up meanings and enjoy hearing them spoken. There are some things I never thought I would say, let alone write. Ben has changed all that.
The first time he spoke to me, before he was born, I sat outside the examining room while his birth mom felt the jelly and the fetal monitor. Then, over the speakers I heard it: a thready and rapid buff, buff, buff. It's the only time I can remember that I had no words at all: I couldn't think, I couldn't speak. I wept profuse, embarassing tears, there on my orange plastic and aluminum chair in a clinic full to bursting with tiny hearts beating just below big hearts.
Soon after Ben was born, a friend handed me these words, carefully printed in her hand, black ink on a white square: "Never doubt for a moment, my son, that you were born in my heart, not below it." The peculiar pride of an adoptive parent.
Parenting brings unimagined combinations of words to my heart and lips. Sometimes, I distinctly hear my own mother in the words I say. Sometimes, the words are uniquely Ben inspired. Very often, I find myself thinking, "I can't believe that sentence just came out of my mouth."
Ben Talk
Do not put your fork on the cat.
No shoes in the toilet.
Rubber Ducky goes potty here.
I love you more than anything.
Do not hit your mamma, ever.
Did you say no to me?
Your rake stays outside.
You are my handsome son.
Say “yes, beautiful Mamma.”
No sticks in your mouth, please.
Use your words.
Tell Grandma you love her!
Stop poking my fat roll.
Not on the wall!
You got up there, you can get down.
Say goodnight to the moon.
Get back to bed, it’s too early.
Lie down with your bear and train.
Don’t hurt the spider.
I am so glad you came along.
The first time he spoke to me, before he was born, I sat outside the examining room while his birth mom felt the jelly and the fetal monitor. Then, over the speakers I heard it: a thready and rapid buff, buff, buff. It's the only time I can remember that I had no words at all: I couldn't think, I couldn't speak. I wept profuse, embarassing tears, there on my orange plastic and aluminum chair in a clinic full to bursting with tiny hearts beating just below big hearts.
Soon after Ben was born, a friend handed me these words, carefully printed in her hand, black ink on a white square: "Never doubt for a moment, my son, that you were born in my heart, not below it." The peculiar pride of an adoptive parent.
Parenting brings unimagined combinations of words to my heart and lips. Sometimes, I distinctly hear my own mother in the words I say. Sometimes, the words are uniquely Ben inspired. Very often, I find myself thinking, "I can't believe that sentence just came out of my mouth."
Ben Talk
Do not put your fork on the cat.
No shoes in the toilet.
Rubber Ducky goes potty here.
I love you more than anything.
Do not hit your mamma, ever.
Did you say no to me?
Your rake stays outside.
You are my handsome son.
Say “yes, beautiful Mamma.”
No sticks in your mouth, please.
Use your words.
Tell Grandma you love her!
Stop poking my fat roll.
Not on the wall!
You got up there, you can get down.
Say goodnight to the moon.
Get back to bed, it’s too early.
Lie down with your bear and train.
Don’t hurt the spider.
I am so glad you came along.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Weeds?
Weeds are but beauty too prolific. I don't know who said it, I suppose I could Google it, but I'm a bit discouraged about Google since I heard they are coming to my town and according to the Ann Arbor News, they want to hire you if you are smart and "really good at a sport." Does that rule out people in wheelchairs?
Anyway, a friend and I were talking about weeds. How sometimes the weeds mix in and they can be just as beautiful, or at least provide some balance, in a garden. And then I thought about bees, and how some bees aren't really bees at at all, but they pollinate, like bees. So I wrote this.
Weeds, Darling
“It’s a weed, darling,”
he said, looking down
his nose at my admiring stoop.
Tiny yellow flowers,
leaves so narrow they
looked like stems:
a tiny bee fly
hovered above
one of the blossoms.
“It’s all the same
to the bees, love,”
I said, without looking up.
Anyway, a friend and I were talking about weeds. How sometimes the weeds mix in and they can be just as beautiful, or at least provide some balance, in a garden. And then I thought about bees, and how some bees aren't really bees at at all, but they pollinate, like bees. So I wrote this.
Weeds, Darling
“It’s a weed, darling,”
he said, looking down
his nose at my admiring stoop.
Tiny yellow flowers,
leaves so narrow they
looked like stems:
a tiny bee fly
hovered above
one of the blossoms.
“It’s all the same
to the bees, love,”
I said, without looking up.
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