i should have told you more firmly,

you of skin translucentas cicada wings, of
tiny bones light as skylark, you of
weft-knit prettypetal dwelling
i should have told you Stay.

---Dear, sweet star, i would have begged you
Stay.

i've known glory all my life.

you have taught child and babe to sing your praise.

oh, will i ever know your name?

relay to me this message, when i am weak and unseeing:
we have done it,
we have done it.

the baby is sleeping in my bed. when he whimpers, my body jumps to be near him. when i fold back the blankets, i am always surprised to find that face, his face; face of my little stowaway.

What did Grandfather say of The War

He told of riding a bicycle,
  uphill    and               down, uphill
and down
to the tavern where he met the boys,
British
and German.

dear Grandfather,
i remember you
sitting in a cinder block cell of a room
            one little window
propped against the wall
shoulders draped in the shawl my mother made.
i remember
( Read more... )

i love you much(most beautiful darling)

Edward Estlin, you damn marker of all things i love and hold dear, and pine for in this time of terrible loneliness. i ad[/bh]ore you.

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
her heart, as mine in time not far away
if on ( Read more... )

e. e. cummings.

i still get away with the use of personal pronoun "i" in academic papers. i think it started when i was looking for myself (and perhaps i never found her), when i had peeled myself away from you, and was busy stitching my own shadow to the shoe of a boy with a nice voice and summery skin.

It was in the tragic dark after Grandfather' ( Read more... )

i'm not sure why, but my adventure seems much less exciting than the others happening around me...

i don't always remember feeling like this.

i didn't intend for this to be a real post. part of me thinks writing in this way--and with this medium--is juvenile, and i should break the habit. But the rest of me is here, typing. while my husband and baby ( Read more... )

there are a few more days before we move our family into your mother's ghost house. i worry about this.
sometimes it feels strangling to know the history, to stand apart from it, clutching this new, precious thing.
i'd like to build a home i can sing in, someday.

and Africa is on my mind.
heart of my hearts, i said, always. the scent was, i thought ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

the baby is kicking hard in my belly ( Read more... )