It’s February, and a finch couple
flits from branch to branch
between waxy camellia leaves,
plucking at blossoms, at twigs.
It’s early yet to feather a nest,
so maybe they’re searching for
aphids, simply sustaining
themselves in this long winter.
I, too, need sustaining
in this long, bleak winter
and turn to poetry to search
for truth, diversion, comfort,
calm, as entire branches of
our great nation are stripped
of softness. Too riddled,
we’re told, with corruption.
And while pruning keeps things
healthy, this is far from healthy —
all decency peeled and hacked
to feed and feather already
substantial nests.
And I am at a loss which way to lean
with my poems in this storm. To settle
in and steel myself against the cold
currents left after caring and kindness,
inclusion and liberty and justice for all
are gone. To write of soft feathered things
staying the course, perching in the soul,
and singing loudly for all to hear?
Or to steel myself with implements of war?
To load my poems with brimstone and
fire, flashes of anger, to sound the alarm,
to blast the eye and ear of friends,
neighbors, countrymen.
And whichever way I go… will anyone
listen? Will anyone care? As they
don’t seem to care anymore anyway.
Children who are in my classroom to learn. Children who are in my classroom because their parents love them dearly. Children whose parents want the best for them.
I learn so much about who they are, where they come from, how they’re raised, what their dreams are, who they love. They write their stories. And boy, do some of them have stories to tell.
Stories of fear. Of poverty. Of attempted kidnappings. Of actual kidnappings. Of violence. Of arduous journeys. Of near starvation. Of cold nights. Meager possessions. Endless red tape. Parents left behind. Siblings left behind. Sadness and struggles. Heartache and love. Family and sacrifice. Hardwork and gratitude, perseverance and pride.
In my classroom we share voices and dreams and experiences and connections and empathy and understanding.
From these children’s stories I’ve learned so much about what bravery and love really look like.
We share our most precious parts of us and we become family. And I will continue to do my best to keep my classroom a safe place.
But as I read these articles and see the footage about ICE showing up at schools, my blood boils and runs cold all at the same time. Because while I’ve done my best to keep my classroom a safe place to learn and grow, we already know schools can be far from safe. Gun violence is a real threat.
And now, so is government-sanctioned trauma.
Teachers go into this job because we love children. All children. And when they hurt, we hurt.
Dear God, please be with these children and their aching, breaking hearts. And please, dear God, keep these children safe.
Earl Grey Morning
Even the name of it soothes.
the violet soft of it,
purled, curling stir of it,
rising through cold
like a promise.
From dark there is dawn --
first fog, then a song.
And even the sense of it soothes.
The cupped balmy breath of it,
pressed against palm of it,
steeping the dark
like an oath.
From warmth will come glow –
soft first and soft-slow.
Easy, the taste of it soothes.
The deep woodsy heft of it,
rich malted zest of it,
breaking the black
like a vow.
From dark will come light,
cool bergamot bright.
So, for now, just feel
for the sunrise,
the wayfinding blessings
are always unwinding and
binding themselves
like a pact.
Find fragrance in the dark.
Seize promise.
Feel the spark.
What’s the best course of action? Inaction.
Feet in fuzzy socks, a throw across my lap,
a no across my lips. Hunkering down
in the softness of my hearth and home
with piano on the playlist and a good book
in my hand. While the crazy plays out, I’m
sipping on jazz and juice.
her rosy-nosed crispness, her cold velvet touch,
her lace on the windshield, her flakes on my cuffs,
her jolly-hued sweaters with seasonal quips,
her Santas and snowmen and icicle drips,
her snuggly soft slippers and warm cozy throws,
her cinnamon coffees; her ribbons and bows,
her gingerbread cookies, her oh holy nights,
her crusty-white windshields, her frosty-toothed bites,
her poinsettia flowers, amaryllis shoots
her cranberries, citrus, and other tart fruits,
But mostly I love her for gifting me you
that icy midwinter from out of the blue,
the city-born guy to the small-town dark horse —
Hallmark Christmas worthy — my happiest verse.
The house, cozy at dawn, and me in my bathrobe and soft Santa socks, Christmas lights glowing, playlist carols going… sipping my coffee and sorting my thoughts,
How lucky am I, I think — no, I know. How blessed to be snuggled beneath a warm velvet throw in the crook of a sectional with my laptop and nowhere to go while watching the sky shift to silver at dawn.
How simple, how sumptuous — an extravagance, bar none –that not everyone has. To have a sanguine soul in a world that exsanguinates souls. My gratitude is great. My cup overflows.
My sons are nestled all snug in their beds and my girls grown and glowing in orbits they threaded and hung on their own, weaving constellations that tell their tales, cast shimmering trails of goodness and grace.
While the boys, on the cusp of their own greatness, silver their way toward their own dawns, stars blooming bright on their baby cheeks and burgeoning lives, and the sky’s (no the universe) is their limit too, destinies unspooling just like their sisters’,, but entirely their own.
I celebrate all their stories, all their tangled strands of light unwound from my body, ever unwinding and widening, bright and brighter still, stringing their gifts like drops of Jupiter, like sun-wrangled, star-spangled miracle-bringers of goodwill and good trouble in this dark world.
There is no greater joy, no greater comfort for a mother’s heart than to see the babies she brought into this world out there in it, slaying and making spirits bright — hers most especially.
They collect at the crossroads at dusk –or is it
dawn? – all the colors of their skin and clothes
(mocha and mist, morning and midnight), mingling
with all the colors of the day drizzling away – or is
it swizzling awake? — the sun behind them, bedding
down — or blinking open — orange like a cat’s eye,
like a red samurai in a providence sky, and these three
sisters stand before this sibylline sun, or under this
mantic moon, while tears stream like moire ribbons
from its surface, like tear-off to-do lists, like hotlines to
call if you have seen me, have met me, have known me,
They’re gathering numbers. They’ve
got yours already, and mine, clutched and bunched in their
skirts, their taffeta pleated pockets, silk threads to weave
windfalls or is it pitfalls? lunar – no solar – eclipses, feasts,
make that famines, all endlessly unleashed at the pull of
an umbilical, umbrellical handle in the sky,. The hands of fate — they make it rain.
1
On either side, the forest stood, pallor gray in winter wood–
timber guards of maidenhood, keystone for the common good,
in times soon best forgot.
And where the mist wove and crept, where the light drowned and wept,
where the moonbeams never slept, the women bore their lot.
In four gray walls, in high-flung towers, hermetically sealed like hothouse flowers,
protection from themselves and others, resided Eve’s ancestral daughters,
in times soon best forgot.
And in those walls the women lay, so privileged their livelong day,
no work, no fear, no joy, had they; childbearing was their lot.
2
As in the tower’s hidden might, they wove and knit, as only right,
inside their wombs, so round and tight, the future of the kingdom bright,
in times soon best forgot.
Wordlessly, they wove away, fearfully trusting, and obeyed;
a curse was on them if they stayed; submission was their lot.
But moonbeams have a certain slant that conjures up subversive chant,
and daughter, mother, matron aunt grew alchemized, recalcitrant
in the land time best forgot.
Inside the marble masonry the daughters knit most seamlessly,
plots they hatched most shamelessly. Wallflowers, they are not.
3
Each petal, thorn, each bud and fruit, each piston and each new-sprung shoot,
hemlock, wolfsbane, jessamine root with burning ache construct their soup,
a deadly broth to give the boot
to times now best forgot.
Bubble double toil and trouble, hurly-burly, then redouble,
bring it down to stub and rubble,
this lot that men begot.
Eye of newt and adder’s sting baboon’s hair like orange string
in the charm, then watch it bring all the good trouble, they sing
in a land that’s now beset
with ache inside the tower base that rises up, begins to rage,
to caterwaul and loose the cage and crack each parapet.
4
‘til brick by brick, women dismantle the mandible and tooth enamel,
the clenching jaw, the instrument panel
hissing and fizzing and snuffing the candle,
watching it all fall away
until…
Grim harvest resting at the base
head in basket, sore disgraced,
lies —
some claim –
a devil’s orange face.
But we’re too busy planning more. Instead, we say,
5
What next?
This week was a rough ride. The kids are amped up on holiday vibes and election results. They’re practically vibrating. I’ve been shushing and redirecting and encouraging and fussing and trying my utmost to keep them focused and remember every day that I love them. I really do love them. But they are exhausting right this minute.
And I get it. Nobody is excited to be sitting in English class writing a perspective poem or a Great Gatsby essay.
This rowdy, raucous week was full of glad tidings for some and dark omens for others — the conversations running the gamut from Christmas carols and Thanksgiving-food-favorites to trending red and blue TikToks and tweets. From elation at the prospect of gas prices coming down to the horror at the slavery texts going ‘round.
Deportation headlines were tossed around like confetti by some, striking like anvils some others. There were book banning and family planning conversations. I even heard about the “her body, my choice” tweet that garnered thousands of likes.
And then there were the students who never even talked about the election at all. It hadn’t even been a blip on their Instagram algorithms.
And while I’m glad those students are innocent to the dark drama of politics, I’m sad too because I know they aren’t immune to the repercussions. My students are 17, 18, and 19-year-olds. So soon, they’ll be out in the very real world and learn what’s most important and essential to each-and-every one of their lives.
Through it all, I did my best to steer them back toward our task at hand: their education, their growth and understanding.
I teach literature. I teach other people’s perspectives. I teach how to walk two miles in somebody else’s shoes. I teach incredibly important lessons. But most importantly, I teach young adults. Young adults who will soon be grown adults who will soon, I hope, be intelligent rational, caretakers of our country. Because I really do love them all. And I really do believe in them all.
And Lord knows, we need intelligent, rational caretakers who can heal our nation and ensure all of us have the fundamental rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All of us.
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