Your hair in the sunlight is…
[smile-sighing with eyes closed]
Your shoulders so strong are my…
[shivery nod]
When you smile my direction, I…
[hums an old lullaby]
Your laugh is perfection. It’s…
[lips quirking, tight-jawed]
When you tell a joke, it’s all…
[head-shaking and snorting]
When you’re into some new thing…
[intense, tingling stare]
Your intelligence strikes me as…
[leans forward, spreads fingers]
And your soul is just…
Well, it’s just…
They say there’s nothing new
The freshest thoughts just tweak the old
They say nine basic plots
Form every story that’s ever told
The same old stories flow
Through all the tales we tell these days
But still we feel the need
To find our own words, our own ways
For true art doesn’t lie
In the invention of the wheel
But in who’s allowed to steer
And how its turning makes you feel
I couldn’t say what’s under there
Old mold? A hibernating bear?
It’s not well-lit. Pipes fill the air.
My visits there are very rare
If I need the special spray
I reach in quick and look away
The back’s not been seen since moving-in day
Whatever was there was there to stay
Except. Except there was yesterday.
Yesterday, my fears I hid
To set an example for my kids
“No job’s too tough!” “The grunge we’ll rid!”
(I hope there’s not a giant squid.)
I knelt on the ground. “In I go,” I said.
I looked around. Wait? Why the dread?
No insects, no growths and nothing dead.
Just castoff bottles and dog food instead
Why are all the fun terrors just in my head?
There’s a bird that keeps circling around my head
I don’t know how to get rid of it
I’ve screamed and I’ve yelled and I’ve waved my arms
But that creature ignores every bit of it
No offense to you, friend, for I’m sure that’s annoying
But it’s hard to feel sorry for that
You could solve your big problem quite simply, you know
If you’d take off your birdseed hat
I, on the other hand, have a true worry
I have such a long way to travel
But my feet are so hot, and the ground is so rough
That I’m fearful my shoes will unravel
Are you hot? You should try having shade on your head
Birdseed hats are a good thing to choose
And as for your feet, you are wasting time fretting
Just take off those knitted wool shoes
Though the rest of my house is respectably formal
The girl in the attic is far, far from normal
She’s lived there as long as I can remember
Wearing snow caps in June and flip flops in December
While the downstairs is neat, decorated with taste
Top floor girl’s gathered everything ever misplaced,
She’s got magazine clippings on every wall
Odd socks, piles of books, a deflated football
And though everyone else eats at regular times
I can smell her fry onions before dawn bells chime
She’ll bake cookies at midnight, at 3 am, pie
(And it smells so delicious I think I might die)
At any odd hour of the night or the day
I’ll hear music or banging or sometimes a neigh
I think she’s rehearsing for some kind of circus
(She really must do it on purpose to irk us)
She forgets things that others consider essential
Like trash day, which she seems to find inconsequential
She misses appointments or comes late wearing slippers
Her hair is askew, she has trouble with zippers
Naturally having her there mortifies us
We’ve talked of eviction on days when she tries us
But somehow we never quite get around to it
At this point I don’t think we ever will do it
It’s partly because her peach pie is so tasty
And she gives great advice when you’re being too hasty
But mostly this house is so bland and so plain
The weirdo up there is who’s keeping us sane
Under the clover the whole world is green
From the ocean the ground seems an unsteady thing
In a tunnel, a flashlight’s unbearably bright
After lifting a whale, a cow feels pretty light
To an inchworm a mouse is enormously tall
From a mountaintop all of the world’s just for dolls
On top of the clouds, rainy days are sunshine
With you here, out of reach turns to already mine
I’m older than I used to be
I’ve learned a few things, too
Some questions have been answered
(I know why the sky is blue)
Every day come new discoveries
Always more than I had planned
But still some mysteries elude me
Things I’ll never understand
Like why the sand feels so amazing
On my toes down by the shore
But it’s the worst thing in creation
Under my feet on my own floor
Or why my favorite cozy sweater
Grows those little fuzzy balls
(Are there tiny elves that make them?
Are they living in my walls?)
And why do some people have everything
And others not enough?
And who invented all this junk mail?
And how did badgers get so tough?
And will we ever build a moon base?
And does a mountain know it’s big?
And how does hope make so much difference?
And will I ever own a pig?
And why on earth do you still love me
When I pass my days this way?
I know I’ll never comprehend it
And yet, you do, so it’s okay
Cause that’s the thing about not knowing
In a way, it’s the best part
What my brain can’t lay out neatly
Makes happy jumbles in my heart
It’s so hot inside this volcano
I’m wondering why I came
I guess it’s the red glow that drew me
Like a moth is drawn to a flame
But now that I’m here, I don’t like it
That lava is way too near
I’m sweating so much I feel dizzy
Is there poisonous air in here?
True, it’s neat I’m inside of a mountain
Liquid rock’s an amazing sight
But some things are way better in pictures
From this close I’m afraid I’ll ignite
One day past Christmas
What a sight
The house is trashed
My hair’s a fright
Wrapping paper piled on high
Empty boxes by the door
New toys scattered everywhere
Those pesky tags litter the floor
Dirty dishes fill the sink
Leftovers fill the fridge
Cookie crumbs on the plates (and floor)
Wine cups empty of all but a smidge
It’s the after-Christmas crazy house
The Christmas present maze-y house
And what’s a mom to do?
Four days past Christmas
Goodness me
Still tons of messes
Plus one dead tree
Wrappers gone but toys remain
On all sides signs of play you meet
Lego creations are proudly displayed
(Watch out for the stray pieces under your feet!)
Open books on the arms of chairs
A baby doll snugged in a blankety nest
Pieces of games and of crafts and who knows
New things jumbled, dust covers the rest
It’s the “we’ve been tired and lazy” house
The “sugar’s made us hazy” house
And what’s a mom to do?
I know I should pull it together
Bring this craziness under control
After all it will soon be the New Year
Time for order and discipline full
But one kid says, “Come play the Playstation.”
The other says, “Please paint my nails.”
And this cup of new tea is delicious.
Could it be I am happy to fail?
I can take down the dead tree tomorrow
I can clean out the fridge next week
I’ll get mopping the floor in a few days
For today, I’ll admit that I’m weak.
It’s the “my eyes got quite glazey” house
The “I needed these days-y” house
And what’s a mom to do?
The one I keep remembering is odd
I’m not sure why it stands out quite this way
The details aren’t clear now in my mind
But the feeling is still there, as bright as day
It was a velvet poster, you know the ones?
All black and fuzzy but for the design?
A little pack of pens to color with?
A premade masterpiece to make all mine.
I know those things are common nowadays
You buy them for two dollars, three for five
But this was maybe 1987?
When velvet made it good to be alive.
I got it Christmas Eve, which wasn’t normal
At a party that our good friends always threw
A family friend had given it to me
A small gift for a child, the way you do
So here’s the moment printed in my mind
We’re driving home, the car is dark, it’s late
I’m in the back and holding that new gift
My fingers stroke the velvet like it’s fate
I’m perfectly happy
Both contented and thrilled
Though tomorrow is Christmas
My heart’s already filled
Why a velvet poster of all things?
The chance to create beauty with no skill?
Or maybe just that it was unexpected?
Or that I could use it up and have it still?
In any case it was a Christmas moment
Whatever the psychology behind it
That childhood joy we talk so much about?
That’s one of the weird things that helped me find it
It’s such a random thing, though, don’t you think?
There’s no way that my parents could have known.
They probably had bought me something better
No doubt I loved it, but the memory’s flown
That’s just the way of Christmas (and of life)
Contentment that complete cannot be forced
If I give a velvet poster to my daughter
It won’t replicate the magic joy, of course
Instead, I do what my own parents did
I make a life of joy and friends and fun
I let go of expectation (or I try)
And when those moments come, well then, they come
Deborah Dunlevy 