Pandemic Poets
This is a project that I was invited to join by the Pandemic Poets page on instagram. I wrote poems based off of prompts given to me by my friends in exchange for donations to the International Rescue Committee. We raised over $150 dollars, and that money was matched by my family and a second donation was made to Businesses Ending Slavery and Trafficking. Some of the poems that I wrote for this project have been posted to this page.
On the Beach
We will tip-toe
charcoal smoked,
ivory and bumblebee splattered,
royal blue lawn chair beaches
with scattered joint butts and discarded peach pits,
until we find our spot
and shed our leather-strapped shoes.
There is security in being at sea-level,
in having nowhere to fall and in looking into a distance and knowing
that if a piece of the Olympics were to crack and crash to the floor, it would land at your feet
and settle in the seafoam.
And when I twist a third Blue Moon open, I will forget about the orange slices in the cooler. I will be watching sand explode like miniature land mines under the feet of my friends,
young men with echoing voices and athletic builds. Young men that I missed during the inside war.
charcoal smoked,
ivory and bumblebee splattered,
royal blue lawn chair beaches
with scattered joint butts and discarded peach pits,
until we find our spot
and shed our leather-strapped shoes.
There is security in being at sea-level,
in having nowhere to fall and in looking into a distance and knowing
that if a piece of the Olympics were to crack and crash to the floor, it would land at your feet
and settle in the seafoam.
And when I twist a third Blue Moon open, I will forget about the orange slices in the cooler. I will be watching sand explode like miniature land mines under the feet of my friends,
young men with echoing voices and athletic builds. Young men that I missed during the inside war.
Uncoil
In the quiet light of late hours,
when days were dim,
harsh,
and closed,
we laid in blanket wombs and walked under concrete towers,
we layered our wounds against the long wind
and made abbreviated eye contact.
We who share shape
and track how many minutes later the sun will set tomorrow,
that sun that seals some scars in bronze,
like the one on the side of my cheek
that will be swallowed by a laugh,
when we begin sharing those again.
And how often do we get to reset,
relearn our favorite tricks,
shed skin like an old jacket,
uncoil,
and crane like a California poppy
seeing the coast for the first time.
Morning
I delay sleep
until my chain makes impressions on both
my pillow
and neck,
and I slide it over my ears,
kiss it,
and lay it next to my crimson water cup,
so that it is there for me when I wake up
to kiss it
slide it over my ears,
feel its weight on my sternum
next to where my heart strikes out
the early morning song,
on beat with the whistling sparrow balanced atop the magnolia,
but absorbed by the T.V. in the kitchen.
It is hard to live in fear at breakfast
when everything bad is stuck in yesterday,
when you’ve survived the six o’clock news
and a mid-slumber sweat.
What is there to be afraid of
when the yard is still
and there are fresh blueberries in the fridge?
when days were dim,
harsh,
and closed,
we laid in blanket wombs and walked under concrete towers,
we layered our wounds against the long wind
and made abbreviated eye contact.
We who share shape
and track how many minutes later the sun will set tomorrow,
that sun that seals some scars in bronze,
like the one on the side of my cheek
that will be swallowed by a laugh,
when we begin sharing those again.
And how often do we get to reset,
relearn our favorite tricks,
shed skin like an old jacket,
uncoil,
and crane like a California poppy
seeing the coast for the first time.
Morning
I delay sleep
until my chain makes impressions on both
my pillow
and neck,
and I slide it over my ears,
kiss it,
and lay it next to my crimson water cup,
so that it is there for me when I wake up
to kiss it
slide it over my ears,
feel its weight on my sternum
next to where my heart strikes out
the early morning song,
on beat with the whistling sparrow balanced atop the magnolia,
but absorbed by the T.V. in the kitchen.
It is hard to live in fear at breakfast
when everything bad is stuck in yesterday,
when you’ve survived the six o’clock news
and a mid-slumber sweat.
What is there to be afraid of
when the yard is still
and there are fresh blueberries in the fridge?
Matzah Brei
There is a recipe that,
I like to think,
has been in my family for generations.
I think this because no one in my family has ever grabbed a spatula
with conviction in their palm.
This recipe is for cooks of all skill levels.
First, you crack half a dozen eggs into a large bowl
and stir.
Then you grab a shit-ton of matzah,
and it crumbles in between your fingers
onto the counter
as you transport it as quickly as possible and slide a sheepish smile
in your mother’s direction.
You then break the thick, aerated sheets of cracker into the bowl
(the pieces of matzah should vary in shape and size for best results).
After you add a few splashes of milk
(any kind will do, but I do not think that they had almond milk four generations ago),
and a dash of salt and pepper,
and stir it all together,
you’re ready to cook.
Fire up the largest pan you can find to medium heat and melt some butter.
Throw all of the matzah brei mix in there,
stomachs are grumbling and siblings are kvetching.
You’re basically just making scrambled eggs at this point,
except for the fact that your matzah brei will be bathed in syrup and
coated in cinnamon sugar before being consumed.
“Moses didn’t liberate us for you to disrespect the bread of affliction
with this sugary, sacrilegious breakfast dish,”
a man with a beard fuller than mine might suggest.
And I would respond,
“Look around. We are no longer the people with our noses in the dirt.
Still, there are many who split sea and border,
who do much more with far less,
for their children to be reclining at breakfast,
like I am now.
Look at how much food we have made:
enough for guests,
in the hope that more will be able to join us next year.
To snap the bread of affliction
and remember how cruel life can be,
and to drown in syrup
and remember how sweet life can be.”
Phantom Limb Pain
I think it was my eighth birthday
that I celebrated with a cookie-cake and Velcro-clad relatives
Retirement County, Florida,
counting (great) Uncle Bob’s fingers.
He had lost one to a shell in WWII.
There is a phenomenon called phantom limb pain
during which someone who has just lost a part feels
painful/burning/twisting/itching
sensations
in their missing extremity,
and I wonder if Bob could feel the absent digit
try to wiggle free
as I passed it by for the fourth time.
Probably not.
You adjust
a middle finger assumes the assignments of a pointer
like commanding a trigger
or poking your partner's side
just before the monster jumps out.
And we will adjust
and are adjusting
to greeting with
distance,
delayed embraces
and words to replace
like
I’m happy you’re here,
yet there will still be the phantom pain
of sharing space
but not closing it,
of a resurfacing memory where
no one speaks
and hands feel like candles
and we still cradle each other
like we’ve never known fragility
or that there was ever a chance
of losing this.
I like to think,
has been in my family for generations.
I think this because no one in my family has ever grabbed a spatula
with conviction in their palm.
This recipe is for cooks of all skill levels.
First, you crack half a dozen eggs into a large bowl
and stir.
Then you grab a shit-ton of matzah,
and it crumbles in between your fingers
onto the counter
as you transport it as quickly as possible and slide a sheepish smile
in your mother’s direction.
You then break the thick, aerated sheets of cracker into the bowl
(the pieces of matzah should vary in shape and size for best results).
After you add a few splashes of milk
(any kind will do, but I do not think that they had almond milk four generations ago),
and a dash of salt and pepper,
and stir it all together,
you’re ready to cook.
Fire up the largest pan you can find to medium heat and melt some butter.
Throw all of the matzah brei mix in there,
stomachs are grumbling and siblings are kvetching.
You’re basically just making scrambled eggs at this point,
except for the fact that your matzah brei will be bathed in syrup and
coated in cinnamon sugar before being consumed.
“Moses didn’t liberate us for you to disrespect the bread of affliction
with this sugary, sacrilegious breakfast dish,”
a man with a beard fuller than mine might suggest.
And I would respond,
“Look around. We are no longer the people with our noses in the dirt.
Still, there are many who split sea and border,
who do much more with far less,
for their children to be reclining at breakfast,
like I am now.
Look at how much food we have made:
enough for guests,
in the hope that more will be able to join us next year.
To snap the bread of affliction
and remember how cruel life can be,
and to drown in syrup
and remember how sweet life can be.”
Phantom Limb Pain
I think it was my eighth birthday
that I celebrated with a cookie-cake and Velcro-clad relatives
Retirement County, Florida,
counting (great) Uncle Bob’s fingers.
He had lost one to a shell in WWII.
There is a phenomenon called phantom limb pain
during which someone who has just lost a part feels
painful/burning/twisting/itching
sensations
in their missing extremity,
and I wonder if Bob could feel the absent digit
try to wiggle free
as I passed it by for the fourth time.
Probably not.
You adjust
a middle finger assumes the assignments of a pointer
like commanding a trigger
or poking your partner's side
just before the monster jumps out.
And we will adjust
and are adjusting
to greeting with
distance,
delayed embraces
and words to replace
like
I’m happy you’re here,
yet there will still be the phantom pain
of sharing space
but not closing it,
of a resurfacing memory where
no one speaks
and hands feel like candles
and we still cradle each other
like we’ve never known fragility
or that there was ever a chance
of losing this.