She must learn again to speak
starting with I
starting with We
starting as the infant does
with her own true hunger
and pleasure
and rage.

-- Marge Piercy



Today I wrote a poem,
And I was a mom...all at the same time.

I decided between this word and that,
Changing my mind, and changing it again.

Then responded to pleas for help with a long-overdue school project,
And watched a video of a baseball field he dreams of playing on.

I considered line breaks, punctuation and flow,
Questioning whether I actually know how to write a poem.

Listening to him whistle as he searched for photos on the computer,
I wondered if the beginning might make more sense at the end.

He called my phone from his, one in each hand,
Mesmerized by the feedback and echo of his voice.

I tried out some titles.
On the off-chance it was ever finished, I would need to call it something.

He tested each and every ring tone (on both phones)
And presented me with his recommendations.

I did not say, "Honey, can you please keep it down?  I'm trying to write."
Because I was not trying to write...somehow, I was writing.

Amazing, the amount of chaos one pre-teen boy can generate.
Amazing, too, the insistence of words determined to find their way through it.

When the work-in-progress needed me to leave it alone, to let it rest,
He tempered my tendency to push and over-think.

And when I was in danger of spirited-boy-induced sensory overload,
The words called to me, enticing me back to the page.

Each in their own way interrupting, distracting,
Keeping me everything that matters.

From 4 years ago (almost)....

The (Damned) D's

The (Damned) D's

And I'm Off...or Not...

And I'm Off...or Not...