April 28th Poem

Saturday, April 29, 2017

How Wondrous Strange to Be in a Body 

You might as well know, my son says while looking at a transforming robot, that his legs open up.  He flips open compartments on the thighs, revealing nothing.

Later I sit on a camping chair in the backyard, after the two irises have bloomed but before the mosquitoes.  I blow bubbles for him, and he chases them with a metal spoon.  Make more villains! he cries.  I am wheezing, like the dying mother from My Life As a Dog.  Mine is only newly hatched asthma.  Pollen.  Though come to think of it, once as a teenager I complained about something to my mother, saying that I was going to die.  Yes, she said.  You are.  (Might as well know.)

"Who are you?  Answer without your name, your job, the things you've done, friends or passions."

this light
these leaves
happy shrieks of children carried on breeze
mourning doves calling

leaf shadows
whatever poor spirit
is trapped in the myrtle

On the walk to preschool I'm telling my son how some people plan their flowers for maximum blooming-- spacing out the daffodils, the irises, the rose.  He asks if we can tap trees for sap sometime.  I think he saw it on PBS.  I tell him that that happens mostly in the northeastern United States.  "New England, it's called."  I'm imagining he hasn't been there, but he was an embryo there.  In Vermont ... the woman who wanted to practice her sound balancing ... she had me lie down in the meditation hut while she tapped at tuning forks over my chakras.  She says that's something is stuck in my second chakra, a blockage ... tapping, tuning in, kneeling over my pelvis.  Then I feel a whoosh and she falls back on her heels.  After that, the implantation happened.  I noticed the spotting and put it together later.  I don't tell my son this on our walk.  He stands up from his stroller to adjust the stuffed cloth tail he's pinned to the back of his pants.  Blue with white spots.

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