We swam downtown on the L,
the heat index over 100
and humidity clogging our lungs,
to celebrate a birthday.
We love the birthday girl enough to do this.
Had it been our birthday,
we would have rescheduled
for a cooler day.
Not long ago, on Father’s Day, I sat down and wrote a sonnet. A sonnet—my first. I didn’t share it with anyone (though I did mention it here), and I don’t recall if it was any good. And now I might never know, because it turns out that I’ve lost it. Yep, lost it—don’t remember which notebook I scribbled it in, cannot find it in my notes app or my blog drafts, it has just disappeared in the chaos of my daily life.
Meanwhile, I’ve become a published poet. (See how I just tucked that in rather than screaming it aloud, which is what I feel like doing?) My poem Old Dog is included in Escape Into Life’s annual anthology of dog poems to herald the Dog Days of Summer, where I get to share a page with some amazingly talented poets. I’m thrilled, honored, and inspired not just by this success of mine but by the beautiful work of the other poets in the collection. Please read them all; they are sometimes funny, sometimes, sad, sometimes shocking, and all marvelous. It’s hard to believe that I belong in their company. Continue reading
Twirling, running, climbing, leaping, laughing,
a gleaming celebration of life is this small boy,
illuminating a strip mall parking lot
with pulsing energy. Continue reading
Midwestern springA spring breeze rustles the trees
whispers across my neck
and disappears in the heat of summer
Our garden fountain
turns birdie bidet
whenever a robin comes to visit.
Dipping and bobbing,
ruffling his feathers, Continue reading
I sit curled on my chaise writing,
engrossed in the parsing of words, punctuation, rhythms
when the snoring dog at my feet
starts to thump his tail
and I am pulled back into the physical world
where the clamor of his dreams
and the warmth of his rump on my toetops
reminds me I am happy
Earhart, named for Amelia because you seemed fearless at first, ignoring the sonic booms from fighter jets overhead.
I called you Earhart, Sweetheart, Sweetie, Sweetie Pie. When you went you left a hole in my heart that will never be filled. I kept your collar, your tags, hung them on the wall with your picture, just one of the shrines that recall you to us.
I couldn’t replace you, so didn’t try. But the emptiness needed filling, so we brought home Rolo—to have and to love, but only to hide the shape of the hole, never to expand and fill the whole. I knew my need for you would still leak through at the edges. I wasn’t wrong.
But love is magical and infinite, always grows, always expands. Rolo built a new space in my heart, next to the leaky hole I couldn’t and wouldn’t fill. Continue reading