Here, a Confession

I think I will be shy forever.

I stutter when I answer the phone -
Sister Ann’s fifth grade classroom all over again.

I sweat a lot.

I believe I will catch something dangerous from the front row.

I have never given anyone the finger.
Would you believe me if I told you I have never even thought about it?

I am awful at opening presents in front of my aunt.
Suddenly, she has twelve eyes instead of two.

I feel sometimes like the social equivalent of
something
single-celled
and slow-moving.

I concentrate on my plate at dinner.

I may be a stretch of silent pavement, but my insides are the accident scene.

Shy is not a shoe size,
not a souvenir t-shirt for me.

Lime Green

It was the color of her prom dress.
She explained how she bought it
second-hand at the Salvation Army for two dollars.

It was not the color of her high heels
because her feet, her toes, wouldn't be caught dead
in those things.

She complained about the corsage
wilting on her wrist.
Flowers deserve better, she said.

Lime green - the color of her smile somehow:
wide and forgiving,
ready to try her best at being a real person
in this ridiculous world.

Dear English Teacher (with a nod to Maria A.)

I remember sitting in your classroom
wondering how you did it:
how did you become an authority on commas and colons?

How did you spend your nights?

I imagined you sitting alone behind a tray table
in your living room,
TV dinner and essays stacked neatly next to one another,
red pen falling in line next to the fork and knife.

I almost felt awful the next day when I asked
if you had graded my paper.

I apologize for my self-importance.
I wonder if you ever got to eat a meal in peace –
without the incessant hum of run-on sentences,
the frantic motion of fragments.

For Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven

When I was fourteen,
I found myself
seated in the second row of Room 205
plaid skirt pressed,
white oxford shirt buttoned,
navy knee socks stretched to impossible heights.

This was Theology with Father,
the period after lunch.
This was why I wished each meal of my freshman year could be the Last Supper.

I never spoke his name during confession,
but I thought it
and hoped God would make the leap.
I thought it had to be a sin to dread the presence of a priest.
I wondered, though, why God had hired him in the first place.
He sweat too much,
was always paying too close attention when girls would cross their legs –
or when they wouldn’t.

His classroom was the worst variety of boys’ club:
“I’m all for the women’s movement –
as long as it’s walking in front of me to the rectory” –
and they all laughed, some of them uncomfortably,
growing red all the way to their fresh haircuts,
trying hard to be one of the guys.

Together, they casually violated commandments of decency and trust,
found communion in colorless jokes
about what men did before accepting the stiff, white collar –
about why women shouldn’t be priests:
“too many lipstick stains on the altar cloth.”
They were his disciples,
his podium the burning bush –

as we pushed ourselves into plastic seats,
skirts sweating,
arms crossed against vulnerable new chests,
eyes fastened to a textbook that wasn’t loud enough.

Bless me, Father, for I have survived you.
It’s been fifteen years since you made me regret being a girl.

Because of You, I Don't Throw Like a Girl

My brother learned card tricks
from my grandfather.
My grandfather, a leathery Maine native,
taught him cahd tricks
in the back yahd
around the picnic table.

At the end of the visit,
this slight of hand became one more way
for my brother to inflict
his magical torture.

I couldn’t figure out
how he guessed my card every time:
a two of hearts after a bike ride,
the ace of clubs before lunch,
the jack of spades during a nighttime TV commercial.

I couldn’t figure out his lay-up, his jump shot.
I always lost at checkers and chess.
He always hid where I couldn’t seem to seek.

His Monopoly magic –
motels lining each tree-lined highway –
left me bankrupt and begging for Scrabble.

But soon, I had my own magic to show him.

He would sit across from me
at the kitchen table
and watch me draw lines into a picture.

“You’ll be an artist someday. I’m sure of it.”

And the words felt like magic, too:
praise
from this boy who now shaved
and called girls after dinner
with his door shut.

About this Blog

says, "Hello there, treasured students. A few of you asked me why I don't create a blog for my work, and I didn't have a good reason. When you write, I write, too - soooo... here is a blog that features some of my own creative writing. Thank you for keeping me honest. Thank you for your daily dose of gentle inspiration."

Some Haiku

I Love Winter Because of

Shoveling at night:
a quiet conversation
between scrapes and flakes.


(and just for fun...)

Down from the Pedestal

Sometimes I worry:
what if Walt Whitman was a
big, fat jerky-pants?

(not that he was, but what if...)

:)

Horror Scope

She is ruled by the moon -
a silver handful tossed into the March sky.

From the middle of June to the middle of July,
she gathers followers:
emotional and loving,
intuitive and imaginative,
protective and sympathetic.

But their darkness,
because we all must harbor some,
makes them more like
the cancer
I know:

formidable and detached,
volatile and possessive,
devious and uncompromising.

She -
nocturnal thief and scavenger -
scours the sandy bottom of a life
for something tender:

the uncle who gives silly nicknames,
the girl with braids and one absent tooth,
the mother who forgets what she needs at the grocery store.

In the dry silence of
chemical compounds and waiting rooms,
I search for a different constellation -
maybe the one where God lives?
maybe the one where patient prayers wait their turn? -
and ask one more question to the sky.

Something About Nature

I waited too long to pull the kayak out of the lake. November water is meant for freezing, not for the fishing of hands grappling with firm knots. I remember tying that knot three months earlier thinking, "Security." In November, security means something else. August perceptions are green and warm. Today, I understand Ishmael with the gray November testing his patience. The kayak is red, orange, and yellow: a perpetual sunset bought used from a man at work who didn't have time for it anymore. I took in his orphaned solace and spent my summer growing sunburned and strong on smooth water. This memory lives far away as my hands are gnawed by wind and water, bare branches, bare afternoon. I walk home, lifeless as November, but I am still shaded by a sunset and careful not to drop this moment.