There’s that pencil again.
You’d think by now it’d have been thrown away.
I would have tossed it ages ago.
I’m not sure why they haven’t.

Firstly, it’s been chewed.
By everyone.
At least the dog and the baby.
I picked it up once
and had to wash my hands for 5 minutes straight to feel clean again.

And the eraser? I don’t think it even came with one.
The lead: brittle.
The wood: flaking away.
I don’t think you can even call it a pencil.
It’s a disgrace to writing utensils everywhere.

And yet they keep it.
Rolling around in the back of the drawer.

Read More

by Kelly Ann

Rear-View Mirror

I waken when I hear the soft music
of the key clicking in the car door lock;
I am startled by the heavy thud
that thunders into the plush driver’s seat.

You turn my direction, apply lipstick,
fix your hair, briefly admire yourself,
and then you quickly manipulate me
into an almost perfect position.

I allow you to see the speeding car
that flies by as you carefully back out.
Later, I tease you with insane drivers
that appear to be just inches away.

Every few minutes, I hear naughty words
slip out your mouth and bounce off the dashboard.
I don’t know why you always curse at me.
Oh wait, that’s right, you’re talking to traffic.

You know the driver spewing exhaust fumes
and tossing cigarettes out his window
will never hear you through bulky steel
and a loud heavy-metal radio.

You know the drunk who swerved into your side
doesn’t care he whacked your right mirror off.
You know muttering in commute traffic
is pointless, you’re asking for an ulcer.

Also, the turn signal is wearing out -
it does not want to be used all the time.
Why can’t you be like everybody else
and expect your intentions to be clear?

It’s not like you move blindly — I’m your guide –
just keep looking backward and take deep breaths.
Please remember that I will always be
adjustable and help you watch your back.

Read More

Exponent II, Vol. V, No.2, Winter 1979

One to Get Ready

by Emma Lou Thayne, Salt Lake City, Utah

—————–

Out of town, on a trip,

I sat this morning in a white tub

on the eighth floor of Chicago.

Unpossessed, I ran the steaming stream

past holding,

Read More

Flight

The feathers are there,
the potential for brilliant flight,
and in my dreams I see her,
running along the sidewalk in front of our house,
arms spread wide,
tips of tennis shoes skimming the asphalt runway of our street,
then effortlessly rising,
up, up, up,
over the swaying grasses of these coastal hills,
honeyed hair streaming behind,
as she soars over the Pacific,
her form silhouetted by the sun.

And my heart swells with joy then,
in my dreams where I see her fly,
grateful to have leaned in close enough,
to feel the soft brush of feathers,
knowing.
I stretch upward on my toes now,
squinting into the sun,
jumping then at the last I too catch a little air,
as she disappears from view,
both of us
unfettered.

My handicapped daughter was the inspiration for this poem.  She’s going to be thirteen next month and is confined to a wheelchair.  I’ve had the most vivid dreams where she walks, and talks, and dances with her skirt twirling around her knees.   This is a poem about my dreams for her, about my gratitude for being able to know her, to feel her gentleness.  I hope that it might also resonate with anyone who wishes for a child to fly – fearless and unfettered.

The  artwork featured at the top of the post is by the artist Rowena Murillo, who has a series of work based on flying girls.  Lovely.

You can see them at http://www.etsy.com/shop/rowenamurillo

Read More

Small blue bottle on a shelf in the kitchen
holds one grape hyacinth
I plucked from a neighbor’s lawn.
Each day I watch the tiny thing die.
This is what I do when I come to the sink.
This is my document of observation.
First the little purple poufs at the bottom fade slightly
then slowly collapse like balloons running out of air
at an excruciating, slow pace.
I can almost hear the air whistling out
a miniscule breath, imperceptible.

The process moves up the stem
row by row of inedible miniature grapes:
the fading color
indigo to pale periwinkle
invisible pinprick that makes no pop but lets out the air
and withering carries on
until the lowermost grapes become raisins
so tight you think they cannot curl into themselves
even a tiny bit more but they do
the whole while an inaudible wheeze–
Exhale.
This gradual dying.

Read More

by Kelly Ann

As he would have

I studied
the well worn map
spread over
the steering wheel
at the gas station

I pointed
to the coast
and the route
I had chosen
and the landmarks
in between

I drove for hours
sharing history
and geography
while listening
to classical music

I stopped
at only the best
panoramic views
so my grandmother’s
Argentine relatives
could take pictures

We picnicked and walked
on the rocky beach
enjoying the chorus
of crashing waves
and sea lions

I gazed
at the Pacific
speechless
with the back
of my palms
on my hips

And as I thought
of my Grandpa
I finally realized
I had done it all -
no GPS, the itinerary,
even the stance

just as he would have

Read More