“Poetry is a playground for people who love words. Welcome to my playground. I hope you find inspiration, solace, and connection here. I hope I make you laugh, and maybe tear up a bit. I hope you find yourself reflected in these words.”
- Julie A. Levin
Labor Day
I remember that one year, invited to a picnic,
invited to belong, invited to play,
learning to throw a spiral, as though
I had ever touched a football before, keenly
aware that I was no longer on the outside
looking in, even glancing at the fence
as though I might see myself watching me.
It’s always been hot, that last
burning away of summer vacation,
luxuriating in late nights when no tomorrow
was a school day, talking on a phone,
tethered to a wall, coiled cord stretched
to a whisper, beneath the covers.
Best friends dissecting conversations,
eager to peel away naivete
and paint our lips with the pretense of cool,
which we confused with blasé,
because we cared so much, it hurt.
I remember that one year, invited to a picnic,
invited to belong, invited to play,
learning to throw a spiral, as though
I had ever touched a football before, keenly
aware that I was no longer on the outside
looking in, even glancing at the fence
as though I might see myself watching me.
We ran back and forth to catch the ball,
back and forth to the water fountains.
I remember feeling light, a hit of helium
in my lungs. Even the pretty blonde girls
were being kind. Even the boy with the dark curls,
the one whose name I was sure I would never forget,
sat with us on the bus, heading home, a miracle
to be so suddenly and completely cured of cooties.
I remember the sweat, trickling around my ears,
gathering in the band of my training bra,
gleeful to have been playing hard
after so many summers with nothing to do.
Ripening
I find a patch of roughness
at the ankle, like dried mud
the color of my own skin,
my own skin, dried and caked
like mud. I scrub with thumb and nail
flakes of my own flesh falling
to the floor, a buffet for mites.
I smell my fingertips - isn’t this
what we all do in secret, reveling
in the wonder of the olfactory self,
a fingerprint of scent, the partnership
of microscopic things that colonize me
and whatever is left that I think of
as myself. My ankles smoothed,
my fingers smell like mushrooms
and forest-floor. If a sommelier
could taste me, words like
earthy, oakey, and open
might pour from his lips.
He might smile, enjoying the vintage,
the way that time softens sharp flavors,
creating depth. Can you tell,
I am a little bit in love
with the flesh of me?
Funny, I didn’t know
how delicious I would become
as I ripen.
I find a patch of roughness
at the ankle, like dried mud
the color of my own skin,
my own skin, dried and caked
like mud. I scrub with thumb and nail
flakes of my own flesh falling
to the floor, a buffet for mites.
I smell my fingertips - isn’t this
what we all do in secret, reveling
in the wonder of the olfactory self,
a fingerprint of scent, the partnership
of microscopic things that colonize me
and whatever is left that I think of
as myself. My ankles smoothed,
my fingers smell like mushrooms
and forest-floor. If a sommelier
could taste me, words like
earthy, oakey, and open
might pour from his lips.
He might smile, enjoying the vintage,
the way that time softens sharp flavors,
creating depth. Can you tell,
I am a little bit in love
with the flesh of me?
Funny, I didn’t know
how delicious I would become
as I ripen.
Scene from a Walk
How do I show you the second
my foot slips unexpectedly
on the last wooden stair
at the end of the trail,
unpolished, unvarnished.
The truth surprises me,
skating unseen dew
that fleeting flush, uh oh!
until the other foot drops
onto dry, gray earth,
dingy as over-processed hair.
You can see the dry cracked skin
of soil. You can see the dingy,
once-white sneaker, dusted
with miles of metered steps.
But, can you see that moment
when I haven’t yet righted myself?
Can you see that moment
when I still don’t know
if I will splay, skin abraded,
tiny beads of blood staining
this warm white shirt pulled fresh
from the line? Can you see
the suddenly pounding pulse, the fear
of losing my balance,
my strength,
my youth,
already receding like a hairline?
How do I show you the second
my foot slips unexpectedly
on the last wooden stair
at the end of the trail,
unpolished, unvarnished.
The truth surprises me,
skating unseen dew
that fleeting flush, uh oh!
until the other foot drops
onto dry, gray earth,
dingy as over-processed hair.
You can see the dry cracked skin
of soil. You can see the dingy,
once-white sneaker, dusted
with miles of metered steps.
But, can you see that moment
when I haven’t yet righted myself?
Can you see that moment
when I still don’t know
if I will splay, skin abraded,
tiny beads of blood staining
this warm white shirt pulled fresh
from the line? Can you see
the suddenly pounding pulse, the fear
of losing my balance,
my strength,
my youth,
already receding like a hairline?
Bamboo Forest
The train from Tokyo launches us
out of dense, dusty, concrete and neon,
beyond monuments to industry, glassed-in
smokers, chuffing tobacco. We flash
past sprawl, snaking through acres
of tiled roofs. Jet lagged, I close my eyes
against the too white skies blanketing the island,
tenting us in the warm, wet breath of monsoon,
beads condensing in dark corners of the body.
The train vents a respite of dry, cool air,
comfortingly humming and rocking.
I am not the only one nodding off.
Slipping in and out of dreams,
I awaken full stop at Kamakura Station.
The heavy air feels gentle here,
uncrowded even in the avenue
lined with tourist-trinket stalls
packed wall-to-wall with bodies,
my friend and I, the only gaijin,
she, the only blonde in a sea of sleek, black locks.
We wander, awed with wonder, awake now,
wide eyed, the shrine before us, beckoning,
the pilgrims, bathed in incense, purified,
tying omikuji to a skein of blessings in full blossom.
Walking further, we enter a temple
of grass tall as trees, shoots emerging
from the earth like fence posts in reverse
driven upward as if called to kiss the sky.
We sip grassy tea beneath a tiled canopy,
breathing the earth’s exhalations, bathing
in the incense of purified air, watching
leaves slowly drifting downward, falling
at our feet like so many blessings.
The train from Tokyo launches us
out of dense, dusty, concrete and neon,
beyond monuments to industry, glassed-in
smokers, chuffing tobacco. We flash
past sprawl, snaking through acres
of tiled roofs. Jet lagged, I close my eyes
against the too white skies blanketing the island,
tenting us in the warm, wet breath of monsoon,
beads condensing in dark corners of the body.
The train vents a respite of dry, cool air,
comfortingly humming and rocking.
I am not the only one nodding off.
Slipping in and out of dreams,
I awaken full stop at Kamakura Station.
The heavy air feels gentle here,
uncrowded even in the avenue
lined with tourist-trinket stalls
packed wall-to-wall with bodies,
my friend and I, the only gaijin,
she, the only blonde in a sea of sleek, black locks.
We wander, awed with wonder, awake now,
wide eyed, the shrine before us, beckoning,
the pilgrims, bathed in incense, purified,
tying omikuji to a skein of blessings in full blossom.
Walking further, we enter a temple
of grass tall as trees, shoots emerging
from the earth like fence posts in reverse
driven upward as if called to kiss the sky.
We sip grassy tea beneath a tiled canopy,
breathing the earth’s exhalations, bathing
in the incense of purified air, watching
leaves slowly drifting downward, falling
at our feet like so many blessings.
Wild Century
We share a single-celled mother,
the first collection of atoms to exist
within a skin,
the first story, coded
on a double helix strand,
giving way millennia later
to every filament of hair
we share, the tight curls you wear,
the loose ones I bear.
What a wild ride our forebears dared,
at the brink of volcanic extinction,
again and again. The memory
of each almost-demise coded
in striations of rock,
Vesuvial ash, peppering the air
at Auschwitz and the ash now
that falls like summer snow
over the Sierras, blown to both coasts
and beyond, coals smoldering
under Christmas snow like little cells,
dormant till spring rains run off
and the summer sun awakens
these fragments of itself,
eager to reclaim the carbon
stardust we are.
What is there to do but meet
that heated persistence in kind?
I show up to each moment,
checking the weather, walking
forward when the air is clear
feeling the strength of my dear
body, propelling me, the skin of me
holding within, like you, like the trees
and salamanders, the code
of our dear, shared mother.
I am the earth, become conscious,
my understanding of ephemera
nudging me to embrace, tenderly
this spare and fleeting moment
we have here, together.
In a recent issue of Poets and Writers magazine, I found a prompt to write about the wild centuries that have led me to this moment and where I see myself going from here. I had just been watching a documentary on the geological history of the planet. This poem is the child of the documentaries and the prompt.
We share a single-celled mother,
the first collection of atoms to exist
within a skin,
the first story, coded
on a double helix strand,
giving way millennia later
to every filament of hair
we share, the tight curls you wear,
the loose ones I bear.
What a wild ride our forebears dared,
at the brink of volcanic extinction,
again and again. The memory
of each almost-demise coded
in striations of rock,
Vesuvial ash, peppering the air
at Auschwitz and the ash now
that falls like summer snow
over the Sierras, blown to both coasts
and beyond, coals smoldering
under Christmas snow like little cells,
dormant till spring rains run off
and the summer sun awakens
these fragments of itself,
eager to reclaim the carbon
stardust we are.
What is there to do but meet
that heated persistence in kind?
I show up to each moment,
checking the weather, walking
forward when the air is clear
feeling the strength of my dear
body, propelling me, the skin of me
holding within, like you, like the trees
and salamanders, the code
of our dear, shared mother.
I am the earth, become conscious,
my understanding of ephemera
nudging me to embrace, tenderly
this spare and fleeting moment
we have here, together.
Well Worn
Sheets, washed to the softness
of newborn skin, a spin dry away from threadbare, a tear
where a kitten pounced
in a basket of linen.
I savor the sensation,
my own skin gentled
in this cocoon of cotton,
this bed where I linger,
watching shoulds float past
like seeds of dandelion
riding the wake of the sun.
My skin too grows thinner,
softer, creasing, hair fading to grey.
I linger in the bed of my body,
loving the softness,
loving the well worn fabric
life has woven of me.
Sheets, washed to the softness
of newborn skin, a spin dry away
from threadbare, a tear
where a kitten pounced
in a basket of linen.
I savor the sensation,
my own skin gentled
in this cocoon of cotton,
this bed where I linger,
watching shoulds float past
like seeds of dandelion
riding the wake of the sun.
My skin too grows thinner,
softer, creasing, hair fading to grey.
I linger in the bed of my body,
loving the softness,
loving the well worn fabric
life has woven of me.
Cleaning Away the Guilt
My dear, beloved self, it is time now
for a gentle cleaning, to scrape away
the last bits of guilt and worry, calcified
on your lovely smile. Rinse and spit
the habit of self torture, that little tyrant
in your mind who still thinks she’s in charge
of saving the whole world
one recyclable bag at a time,
if only she could remember
what the numbers nestled in triangles signify.
Each day, you will have to brush and floss
the debris that comes of ingesting
other people’s distress, collective invective
as the infighting continues and we root canal
the planet for petroleum to forge plastic
to make toothbrush handles and child-proof
caps for all the pills we take to cope.
Ah, sigh. Even sob. Grief is welcome.
Like the sign in the consignment shop proclaims,
“New losses are arriving daily.”
It is time though, still, despite everything,
to practice letting go of the mess
you never set in motion. Take off the
chains. Put down the cat-o-nine
you once believed you needed
to keep you in line. Tend the earth
as you can. Marvel at the sunflowers
and buttercups offering themselves up
this day after Valentine’s Day.
Let them teach you to rest in the sun,
face upturned and bathed in light.
If this is the end, and of course, it is the end
of something, be done with squandering
the clear-air days on should-haves.
Go outside and play. See how the moss
is still so madly in love with the trees,
they can’t stop hugging. Snuggle into life,
wrap joy around your shoulders.
There will be time, in fire season,
to stay indoors and write your senators.
Tend the earth as you can, while letting go
lament. Eat an heirloom orange
wiping the juice from your chin
with the hem of your shirt,
and smile that gorgeous smile
smug in the knowledge that
you have used one less paper towel,
and that, for now anyway, is enough.
My dear, beloved self, it is time now
for a gentle cleaning, to scrape away
the last bits of guilt and worry, calcified
on your lovely smile. Rinse and spit
the habit of self torture, that little tyrant
in your mind who still thinks she’s in charge
of saving the whole world
one recyclable bag at a time,
if only she could remember
what the numbers nestled in triangles signify.
Each day, you will have to brush and floss
the debris that comes of ingesting
other people’s distress, collective invective
as the infighting continues and we root canal
the planet for petroleum to forge plastic
to make toothbrush handles and child-proof
caps for all the pills we take to cope.
Ah, sigh. Even sob. Grief is welcome.
Like the sign in the consignment shop proclaims,
“New losses are arriving daily.”
It is time though, still, despite everything,
to practice letting go of the mess
you never set in motion. Take off the
chains. Put down the cat-o-nine
you once believed you needed
to keep you in line. Tend the earth
as you can. Marvel at the sunflowers
and buttercups offering themselves up
this day after Valentine’s Day.
Let them teach you to rest in the sun,
face upturned and bathed in light.
If this is the end, and of course, it is the end
of something, be done with squandering
the clear-air days on should-haves.
Go outside and play. See how the moss
is still so madly in love with the trees,
they can’t stop hugging. Snuggle into life,
wrap joy around your shoulders.
There will be time, in fire season,
to stay indoors and write your senators.
Tend the earth as you can, while letting go
lament. Eat an heirloom orange
wiping the juice from your chin
with the hem of your shirt,
and smile that gorgeous smile
smug in the knowledge that
you have used one less paper towel,
and that, for now anyway, is enough.