Thumbing peas from their pods
I can’t help but think
of Punnett squares
and the phytochemicals
that would protect me
from a patrimonial predisposition
to cancer.
Sitting cross-legged
on the couch with a bowl
inherited from my husband’s grandmother
in my lap,
I prefer to think
of the pea-shellers
who’ve gone before
sifting cool green marbles
through their fingers
feeling peas.
The boys in their khaki uniforms
continued to draw swastikas
in the margins of their notebooks
even against our teachers’ dictates.
When my grandfather,
born a Jew,
showed me a picture
of G.I.’s pointing pistols
at each other
in front of a Nazi flag,
my third grade mind
could only draw
one conclusion.
Fascinated by stories in our books
of lampshades stretched
from human skin,
I raised my hand in catechism
at Holy Name of Jesus
and told Ms. Kibodeaux,
“My grandpa was a Nazi.”
“Your grandfather’s going to Hell,”
she said to me,
eager to sort the damned
from the saved,
burning us whole.
My God
doesn’t like you.
He says
suicide bombs
are for sissies,
and even if He were
one of those virgins
you guys are
always talking about,
He wouldn’t screw you,
no sir.
You should get
a nicer God,
one who loves
Jews and Christians
and Muslims alike
even though
(I agree)
some of the Christians
don’t deserve it.
You know the ones –
they put bumper stickers
on their rusty cars
that say
“My boss is a Jewish carpenter.”
You’d think
Jesus would give them a raise,
that Shylock,
just to see
His bumper stickers
on better cars.
But anyway,
why not get a God
who doesn’t like to see
His kids blown up,
a God
who would talk you out of it.
I’m sorry, God,
but things just aren’t
working out between us.
In the beginning
it was all light
and flowers
and stargazing
and hanging out together
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
And it was good.
But you’ve changed.
Do this, don’t do that,
worship Me.
“You shall have
no other gods before me.”
Ok, I said, we can be exclusive.
And, sure, I’ve coveted my neighbor,
but I’ve been faithful to you.
Still, you’re always watching me,
asking if there’s anything
I’d like to confess.
So I’m breaking up with you.
I’d like to date other gods.
Let’s just be friends.
(nominated from Poets.org to go to the September 2007 IBPC)
It is my job
to distill the news
and e-mail it to my dad
who gets half an hour
twice a day
on the Internet
at the Alexandria library
to see if his house
has taken on water
there is a lot I read
but don’t send
a woman floating
her dead husband to the hospital
on an unhinged door
the dogs
the rescue workers describe
frying in the power lines
people trying
to break into Children’s Hospital
as if there weren’t enough
sadness there
for just one place
but between us
there is that one house
on Ridgeway Drive
that hasn’t taken water
and Great-Aunt Nialta
who expects a phone call
to make sure
you got home safe.
“In the beginning was the Word. . .”
– John 1:1
I used to lie on my bed
and browse the great
catalog of creation,
the dictionary.
Who could have known
that a is for apple
could cause so much trouble –
a lexicographer’s nightmare –
that b is for bite
would beget
e is for exile
m is for murder
all the way down to
z is for zoo
(the animals in the garden
having no need
for c is for cage).
One wonders
what was before the word?
I used to stare
at the spaces between letters
until the words became
without meaning
without form
and void
repeated them
until the sounds came
like speaking in tongues
and then let them
drift back into being,
understanding
watched
as the word again
became flesh.
Sometimes
you’re all day
alone
trying to rearrange
a half-finished house
and you sit
by the dryer
and cry
because it isn’t
the life you wanted
and you wait for him
so you can say you’re
pissed
then he does something
sweet
or funny
and you can’t.
Go down
into the cavern
mark your handprint
red
upon the walls
and your cheeks
you are woman
and this is
the calling of power
drum up the dead
unbury your stillborns
from this earth and
rebirth them
the moon is round
and you too
are ready.
(Originally published in Cahoots Magazine)
In the name of
the Celery
the Onion
and the Holy Bell Pepper,
Amen.
Dig in.
My God is love
like an Italian mother
eat, eat
it’s good for you.
My God is not white
not usually
but chocolate brown
like a good roux
yellow
like a sweet onion
red
like cayenne
pink like shrimp.
She doesn’t care
if you worship
other gods
but please, honey,
no Twinkies
they’ll spoil your dinner
and what do they
put in those things
anyway?
This is my God.
This is my body.
Take, eat.
One day, a writer named Goldilocks wandered into the woods and came upon a cottage. When she got inside, she found three critics.
She gave her work to the first one. The first critic loved everything and gushed lots of superlative adjectives to describe it. “I wouldn’t change a thing,” said the first critic. Too Soft, thought Goldilocks.
She gave her work to the next critic. The second critic hated her work and said lots of things that made Goldilocks wish she’d found bears instead. “This is trite and without redeeming literary merit,” the critic said. Too Hard, Goldilocks thought.
Goldilocks gave her work to the last critic. The third critic chuckled at many of the parts that were supposed to be funny, and gave suggestions for improvement in others. “You’re off to a good start,” said the third critic. Goldilocks sighed with relief. Just Right, she thought.
Like Goldilocks, beginning writers especially should be careful to find people to critique their work who are Just Right. Inexperienced writers can be especially sensitive to criticism, and the wrong type can set us back days, months, even years.
Readers who are Too Soft make you feel all squishy inside, but they don’t move your craft forward, and you can never quite trust them anyway. They may be well-meaning – family and friends tend to fit this category – but they’re too worried about breaking your heart.
Readers who are Too Hard are career-killers. A particularly painful incident with one of them can make your hand seize up and stop working. They often have egos much larger than they deserve to, and, like the playground bully, elevate themselves by knocking other people down. Remember, just because a writer is good, famous even, does not mean he makes a good critic.
The trick is to size these critics up before they’ve got their bear paws on your favorite work. If you’re in a class or a group, let someone else go first, and listen to the tenor of the comments. If you’re part of an online group, lurk a little before posting. If all else fails, remember going into the cottage that this critic may not be Just Right – and don’t let a Not Right critic stop you from venturing into the forest ever again.