The black rock presses back against the sea.
Waves crash against its back, spit through its cracks.
Let us astonish ourselves, let us leap,
Blind to convention, out among those deep
Waters, waves parting as we arc faster,
Hands outstretched, fingers gripping until we
Cover our own heads, astonished, blinded
By salt foam, water swallows our faces.
Blind, we grope towards each other, lost in deep
Waters. Nothing holds here, nothing can keep
Its old shape. Let the undertow draw us
Under, deeper, leaving no trail behind
Us, airless, lost to black rock and the sea.
Laughing, we leap backwards, spitting out salt.
An orange, cut in neat slices across the grain,
Sits on the cutting board,
Ready for teeth and tongue.
It’s a messy proposition, vibrant, advertising
Sour sweetness on the plate, in the scented air.
My mother loves oranges.
In childhood, she had nothing.
Family of nine living in a defunct service station
Just outside her Colorado town.
Hard-packed dirt floor,
Stained-glass kitchen window
Pieced together from ends of beer bottles
Scavenged from the roadside,
Set in a wall built of oil cans
Packed with sand against rain and wind and snow.
She tells of fixing the chimney in a blizzard,
Her dad coughing below, coughing, coughing
As lead dust from the munitions factory
Seeps from his lungs into blood and brain.
War work, for a man too old to fight.
Mom taught me to peel oranges
With straight shallow cuts, stem to navel,
Pulling the peels off in strips like bright orange canoes,
Or cutting round and round, a corkscrew spiral.
Throw it over your shoulder
For the letter of a name
Of the man you will marry,
P for Peter, G for Garland.
Everything she had was a hand-me-down.
Clothes, books, whooping cough.
Her father’s faith.
Only the orthopedic shoes were hers alone.
Heavy, ugly, wear them every day
Or grow up a cripple.
I thought she grew up in Little House on the Prairie,
Not the 1950’s we used to watch on tv.
Other girls had poodle skirts, saddle shoes,
Boyfriends with cars.
My mother had oranges.
Golden, ripe, sunshine in a box at Christmas
From her California grandmother.
She still eats one every day.
Or two, if she’s forgotten the one
She already had this morning.
She was raised to be tidy, so even the peels
Don’t give her away.
Only the sweet mist of orange zest
In air scented with memory.
“The Problem with Progressives” by Sharon Rauenzahn
The problem with progressives, my husband said
Walking into the kitchen while I cooked
The problem with progressives, he said, is that
Don’t say it, I thought
Just don’t say it
Let it be unsaid
Don’t say we aren’t incremental enough
That we try to fix everything at once
That we are too pessimistic about people’s abilities
That we are too optimistic about government
Don’t say what you are thinking
That we let identity drive too much policy
That we have no sense of unity
That we want too much and understand too little
Just don’t say
What I know you are thinking
Married seventeen years, I can read your mind
The problem with progressives, my husband says
Pulling off his glasses, rubbing his eyes
He looks tired
I hope he likes this tofu curry
I’ve never made it before
I hope he doesn’t say
The problem with progressives, he says, is that
When you look at one thing with them
Everything else around it
Goes out of focus
I wish I’d gotten bi-focals instead, he says
I should have known he’d say that
That smells really good, he says
Is that tofu?
I wish I’d gotten the bi-focals, he said
When you jump out of a
Your stomach rises as you do
As the sand
Hanging below you
Then rushing up
Slow at first
If you’ve jumped high enough
Out over the playground
Higher than houses
Then you come down hard
Swallowing your feet
Pressing up into your bent knees
Pulling your hands and face
Down into the sun-heated grit
Getting up again
Laughing the sand
Out of your
Dusting the sand off your
Getting old is like that
Stomach not quite under control
The land rushing up
Slow at first
Not laughing so much now
As you cough the
Out of your mouth
Getting harder to stand back up
From the dust
Swallowing your feet
the new house (any house)
new job (any job)
for my birthday
for him to notice me
for them to appreciate me
to grow up
for my kids to grow up
waiting to die?
waiting for life most of all
waiting for justice to fall, to keep falling
like the rain we’ve been waiting for
dry so long you forget what it tastes like
he said he’d be here
how long has it been?
two thousand years?
i feel like it’s
just around the corner
like waiting for that bus
leaning out into the street
the smell of diesel in my mouth
that’s what hope tastes like
Momentarily blinded by the light of the star
Shining down on me from the Walmart sign
I gather my courage, enter in
Where has my heart led me, again this year?
Looking, as ever, for that one perfect gift
Will it make someone happy?
Knowing only love would lead me here
This day of all days
Searching out that long-awaited, eagerly anticipated
Representation of love
For what else is a gift, any gift
Freely (or expensively) given?
Socks, slippers, this year’s fought-over Furby
Yet there is love even here, even at Walmart
One more shopping day before Christmas
I know Christ died
That things are only things
Grass fading, flowers falling
But today, this day made for man
I will be battered and bumped
I will seek and not find
I will wish for something simpler
A little more real
All the time picturing
Little boy Jesus
Playing with Myrrh
Wishing for a bicycle