By the back lot of Spalding’s bakery on West 6th
I reached my fingers around the rusted gate
of used-to-be farmland dropped out-of-the-sky
sideways into inner-city and curled my hand
around a pale blue blossom, took the petals
between the printed pads of index and thumb.
You drew plans for empty spaces on your notepad.
I kicked the broken bottles at my feet,
asked you to hold my notebook but,
stuck my pen through the thick
of my ponytail and clambered
over the red gate, dropped
into a patch of could-be-poison-oak.
I wrote the names of fauna on my hands,
pressed my palms to the bricks of the bakery,
touched my cheek to the panes of the windows,
scribbled the taste of the dust on my forearm.
You pressed yourself against the metal until
the flakes of red-40 paint stuck to the white lettering
of your t-shirt, while I turned over rock and abandoned
lawn chair, counting daddy-long-legs and the circles
of a spider’s web, drawing further away.
I told you writing was about discovering empty.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Mourn
This is the silence I must tell, when lips blessed
the taste of goodbye, the taste of salted
holy water comig from eyes, when faces
were thankful for night to hide tomorrow
while it clung to the pressed corners of their mouths.
I found myself reciting back all the moon hymns
that I could remember, looking through the glow
of your cell phone, catching you with streak-lines
and the skin of your brow crumpled down
to the bridge of your nose.
I followed the blood-rush with my fingers,
up from the tops of your ears
to the bottom of your cheekbone,
seeping into the whites of your eyes,
stinging the coffee brown around the black
while reflected streams of light suck
to the edges like fast drying ink.
I told you the silence as you pressed
your ear to the bottom of my collarbone,
so you could feel the poetry under my skin,
crawling up the strings of my spine,
so you wouldn't feel so much
like we were burning.
the taste of goodbye, the taste of salted
holy water comig from eyes, when faces
were thankful for night to hide tomorrow
while it clung to the pressed corners of their mouths.
I found myself reciting back all the moon hymns
that I could remember, looking through the glow
of your cell phone, catching you with streak-lines
and the skin of your brow crumpled down
to the bridge of your nose.
I followed the blood-rush with my fingers,
up from the tops of your ears
to the bottom of your cheekbone,
seeping into the whites of your eyes,
stinging the coffee brown around the black
while reflected streams of light suck
to the edges like fast drying ink.
I told you the silence as you pressed
your ear to the bottom of my collarbone,
so you could feel the poetry under my skin,
crawling up the strings of my spine,
so you wouldn't feel so much
like we were burning.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
A New Year, A New Together
He dipped his middle finger into the holy water and touched it to his face as we left St. Paul's Cathedral on New Year's Eve. I smiled to Father Charles and passed the baptismal without a second glance. The water was still and shining in the marble bowl, but when his fingers breeched the surface it rippled and swirled like any other liquid.
Must you be so holy? Must you, to be able to touch the water and make it seem so ordinary again? I was sure he was holy enough, good enough, but not me.
We laced our hands together and blessed water wet the spaces between my fingers and his. We climbed down from God's great house and I admired the structure from the sidewalk. Our breath made ghosts around us but neither of us said anything. The wind whipped through the space between our bodies, sending shivers up my bare legs.
I let the silence sink in for a moment as I pondered deep in my heart. Mary's motherhood, Joseph's disconnection with his only love, his helplessness. While Mary shined in God's hands, Joseph passed by, admired her with reverence--and shame.
Was it shame? What was in Joseph's heart as he looked at Mary? Did he see how pure she was? Did he see how she smiled and moved and how blessed she was? Did his heart sink like a rock in his chest when he realized that she was good?
What did Mary see in Joseph when she looked back?
We walked the next three blocks to the car. My shoes made the only sound between us, counting my steps against the cobblestones. I counted with them and wondered at his warmth next to me, avoided his gaze.
But, Joseph loved Mary. Of that, I was sure.
He opened the passenger door for me, smiled and his eyes were thankful. For what, I can't be certain, but I knew he saw my shame, my questions, and he told me I was wonderful.
Wonderfully disconnected.
Must you be so holy? Must you, to be able to touch the water and make it seem so ordinary again? I was sure he was holy enough, good enough, but not me.
We laced our hands together and blessed water wet the spaces between my fingers and his. We climbed down from God's great house and I admired the structure from the sidewalk. Our breath made ghosts around us but neither of us said anything. The wind whipped through the space between our bodies, sending shivers up my bare legs.
I let the silence sink in for a moment as I pondered deep in my heart. Mary's motherhood, Joseph's disconnection with his only love, his helplessness. While Mary shined in God's hands, Joseph passed by, admired her with reverence--and shame.
Was it shame? What was in Joseph's heart as he looked at Mary? Did he see how pure she was? Did he see how she smiled and moved and how blessed she was? Did his heart sink like a rock in his chest when he realized that she was good?
What did Mary see in Joseph when she looked back?
We walked the next three blocks to the car. My shoes made the only sound between us, counting my steps against the cobblestones. I counted with them and wondered at his warmth next to me, avoided his gaze.
But, Joseph loved Mary. Of that, I was sure.
He opened the passenger door for me, smiled and his eyes were thankful. For what, I can't be certain, but I knew he saw my shame, my questions, and he told me I was wonderful.
Wonderfully disconnected.
Monday, December 14, 2009
12/14 trees and things
Snow
I found you in a cotton shirt,
lying long ways in the living room floor,
while the ceiling fan slowed to a crawl
and December chill crept in from the window.
You dropped your shoulders into the Saxony carpet
while the fibers bent around you like perfect eggshell sand.
They cradled the base of your neck, reminded you
of a time when summer filled the room, filled
our mouths, tasted wine thick between us.
And you didn’t seem to notice
when I said your name.
~
Oak
He looks at me with oak tree brown,
wise, like the crimson rings in the whites
of his eyes count the age of his soul.
He sways but does not sleep.
If I broke apart his skin and searched for green,
I wonder if I would find wilted leaves,
if I would find bark running between
veins in the branches.
Wise, like the crimson rings in the whites
of his eyes count the age of his soul.
I found you in a cotton shirt,
lying long ways in the living room floor,
while the ceiling fan slowed to a crawl
and December chill crept in from the window.
You dropped your shoulders into the Saxony carpet
while the fibers bent around you like perfect eggshell sand.
They cradled the base of your neck, reminded you
of a time when summer filled the room, filled
our mouths, tasted wine thick between us.
And you didn’t seem to notice
when I said your name.
~
Oak
He looks at me with oak tree brown,
wise, like the crimson rings in the whites
of his eyes count the age of his soul.
He sways but does not sleep.
If I broke apart his skin and searched for green,
I wonder if I would find wilted leaves,
if I would find bark running between
veins in the branches.
Wise, like the crimson rings in the whites
of his eyes count the age of his soul.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Doughnuts, Goetta and Chocolate Delight
“You’ve never had goetta?”
I didn’t realize how my denial would affect the rest of my Saturday night. Ali D., my roommate from the Kentucky Governor’s School for the Arts was sitting on my couch, her arm stopping mid-swing as she prepared to bowl her final frame on Wii Bowling. Jen, another GSA alumni came skidding in from the kitchen in her new pair of Christmas socks. They had smiling Christmas trees on them.
“She’s never had goetta?!” Jen was the definition of a fiery red head, always laughing, always smiling, and always making up some new joke about our residence life group from Governor’s School. She was not smiling now. Her brow had fallen into a concentrated curve and she gave Ali one of her serious business faces. Jen and Ali had a sort of secret language I had never figured out. They were both Visual Art students at GSA, while I was Creative Writing. I would often catch them staring at each other, laughs on the tips of their tongues while they made some private joke through their pupils. It was frustrating to be out of the loop, but more interesting to watch.
Ali and Jen deliberated, half in silent looks, half in actual words (most likely for my benefit) claiming I had no life without this mysterious food called goetta. From what I could draw it was some sort of sausage with oats—not too appealing to think about if you asked me. I like to avoid oats…and foods that were, as Jen put it, “kind of like hot dogs—you just don’t think about what’s in it.” Ali assured me it was much better than it sounded. It was a German thing, she said, a Northern Kentucky breakfast dish. Somehow it was extremely important.
“Like hash?” I asked.
They just laughed.
“No, not like hash. It’s waaay better than hash.” I was a little surprised Ali had experience in eating hash at all, but then again, with the sound of this goetta, I couldn’t really be that surprised.
To prove to me how popular this goetta was, Ali and Jen pulled out their cell phones, texting friends and family to tell them all that I had never had goetta. Had I missed out on some major part of growing up—like watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade or tasting PlayDough for the first time? Hopefully goetta was in no way similar. I had missed some rite of passage…and my family claimed German roots. Was I simply a shame to my own heritage? At least I wasn’t alone. Mark, my boyfriend had never heard of the dish, and he was German enough for the both of us.
“We have to get goetta.” Jen clutched her phone and glanced towards my keys lying on the floor.
Oh, right. I was the one with the vehicle.
Ten minutes and forty seconds later we were in my car, Jen riding shotgun, heading to the local Wal-Mart Supercenter. If they didn’t have it, no one would.
They didn’t have it.
We searched the meats, the tubed sausages, the eggs, the frozen meats, the weird cheese kiosks. Ali was stamping down the spice aisle (because that’s exactly where you would find German sausage with oats) calling out: “Goet-ta! Goet-ta! Why—don’t-you have Goet-ta!?” That got us all going. Ali danced around the paprika, legs crossed to keep from peeing and hand over her mouth to keep from howling. Jen’s make-up was running down her cheeks in rivers and I was doubled over on the floor. This was the way things usually turned out between us. Once we started, there was no stop. The odd combination of being together after spending almost six months apart and searching for this mystery food was just comical enough to get ourselves kicked out of Wal-Mart.
Well…kicked out is such a strong word…
Asked to resign from shopping was more like it.
Back in the car, Ali and Jen were more determined than ever to get some goetta. Ali rode in front this time while Jen sat in the back calling Dylan and Thomas to see if they’d ever had goetta. Dylan thought it was some form of inner-city culture he should know about. Thomas thought it was a person.
“Thomas, you’re such a Debbie Downer!” was all Jen had to say.
These girls were crazy. They sang songs about goetta and the moon. They bounced around in my car like a couple of sling-shot bouncy balls. Ali directed me to the nearest Kroger to check their stock while they discussed the ways of cooking and eating goetta.
“You put syrup on it.”
“No, Jen, that’s gross. Mustard. It’s mustard.”
“Sick! Freak-face, you eat mustard in the morning?!”
“Yes! I can’t believe you put syrup on your goetta, that’s so disgusting.”
“Mustard’s disgusting.”
All I had to do was sit back and watch—and drive of course—as they threw down their cases for each topping. I was almost certain if they had both been in the back seat there would’ve been a fight. Over goetta. Ali claimed goetta had to be baked, while Jen said fried. All the while, I doubled over the steering wheel, trying to focus on driving while I laughed.
When we reached Kroger, my partners in crime made a b-line for the meats. They stopped only once, distracted by icing cookie sandwiches made to look like frogs, and then they were back on their mission. We found the sausages easy enough, causing a scene next to the hot dogs. We were all calling it out now.
“Goetta! Goet-ta!”
Deli workers stared. Late night Kroger shoppers altered their paths around us so to not get too close. We were diseased. We were insane. We were too happy for a midnight Kroger run.
We scanned the sausages up and down. Mild, country style, hot, lean, fat-free…
“IT’S GOETTA!!!” Jen’s hand snatched up a small beige tube in the forgotten bottom corner of the sausages and raised it high over her head. Screaming and flailing her arms, Ali grabbed it from her to read the label.
“It is! We found it!”
What I had expected to be a more grand and sophisticated food turned out to be just another tube of sausage. It looked a lot like fruit cake…only with less color and less…cake…
Jen was our parade leader, holding the goetta high over her head as we made our way to the check-out lanes. All the while Ali walked half doubled over, again to avoid peeing herself, making as much noise as possible.
“Ali, Ali. Let’s not get kicked out before we can buy it.”
We made it out safely and were back home in a matter of minutes, huddled around the stove, frying up disks of meat and oats, documenting every second with Jen’s digital camera. These are my friends. I thought, then again…we are the company we keep, right?
The smell of goetta was interesting, more like old sausage…left-over hamburgers. I agreed to try both syrup and mustard to appease the girls (syrup was better) and they began calling everyone they knew to see if they’d ever had goetta. Unabashed by the number of no’s and the many voice-mail inboxes we reached, we left long explanations of goetta and sang Christmas carols to our sleepy friends. We soon raided the fridge. Chocolate delight, doughnuts, pizza, goetta. It was our greatest smorgasbord, all washed down with a couple bottles of Ale-8. It was a night of local favorites, a night of triumph. I had goetta for the first time. The Three Musketeers were back in action. Our appetites and adventures appeased, we soaked up each other’s company in the yellow light of my 1 a.m. kitchen, munching on goetta and cracking open walnuts just to see if we could get them out whole.
I didn’t realize how my denial would affect the rest of my Saturday night. Ali D., my roommate from the Kentucky Governor’s School for the Arts was sitting on my couch, her arm stopping mid-swing as she prepared to bowl her final frame on Wii Bowling. Jen, another GSA alumni came skidding in from the kitchen in her new pair of Christmas socks. They had smiling Christmas trees on them.
“She’s never had goetta?!” Jen was the definition of a fiery red head, always laughing, always smiling, and always making up some new joke about our residence life group from Governor’s School. She was not smiling now. Her brow had fallen into a concentrated curve and she gave Ali one of her serious business faces. Jen and Ali had a sort of secret language I had never figured out. They were both Visual Art students at GSA, while I was Creative Writing. I would often catch them staring at each other, laughs on the tips of their tongues while they made some private joke through their pupils. It was frustrating to be out of the loop, but more interesting to watch.
Ali and Jen deliberated, half in silent looks, half in actual words (most likely for my benefit) claiming I had no life without this mysterious food called goetta. From what I could draw it was some sort of sausage with oats—not too appealing to think about if you asked me. I like to avoid oats…and foods that were, as Jen put it, “kind of like hot dogs—you just don’t think about what’s in it.” Ali assured me it was much better than it sounded. It was a German thing, she said, a Northern Kentucky breakfast dish. Somehow it was extremely important.
“Like hash?” I asked.
They just laughed.
“No, not like hash. It’s waaay better than hash.” I was a little surprised Ali had experience in eating hash at all, but then again, with the sound of this goetta, I couldn’t really be that surprised.
To prove to me how popular this goetta was, Ali and Jen pulled out their cell phones, texting friends and family to tell them all that I had never had goetta. Had I missed out on some major part of growing up—like watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade or tasting PlayDough for the first time? Hopefully goetta was in no way similar. I had missed some rite of passage…and my family claimed German roots. Was I simply a shame to my own heritage? At least I wasn’t alone. Mark, my boyfriend had never heard of the dish, and he was German enough for the both of us.
“We have to get goetta.” Jen clutched her phone and glanced towards my keys lying on the floor.
Oh, right. I was the one with the vehicle.
Ten minutes and forty seconds later we were in my car, Jen riding shotgun, heading to the local Wal-Mart Supercenter. If they didn’t have it, no one would.
They didn’t have it.
We searched the meats, the tubed sausages, the eggs, the frozen meats, the weird cheese kiosks. Ali was stamping down the spice aisle (because that’s exactly where you would find German sausage with oats) calling out: “Goet-ta! Goet-ta! Why—don’t-you have Goet-ta!?” That got us all going. Ali danced around the paprika, legs crossed to keep from peeing and hand over her mouth to keep from howling. Jen’s make-up was running down her cheeks in rivers and I was doubled over on the floor. This was the way things usually turned out between us. Once we started, there was no stop. The odd combination of being together after spending almost six months apart and searching for this mystery food was just comical enough to get ourselves kicked out of Wal-Mart.
Well…kicked out is such a strong word…
Asked to resign from shopping was more like it.
Back in the car, Ali and Jen were more determined than ever to get some goetta. Ali rode in front this time while Jen sat in the back calling Dylan and Thomas to see if they’d ever had goetta. Dylan thought it was some form of inner-city culture he should know about. Thomas thought it was a person.
“Thomas, you’re such a Debbie Downer!” was all Jen had to say.
These girls were crazy. They sang songs about goetta and the moon. They bounced around in my car like a couple of sling-shot bouncy balls. Ali directed me to the nearest Kroger to check their stock while they discussed the ways of cooking and eating goetta.
“You put syrup on it.”
“No, Jen, that’s gross. Mustard. It’s mustard.”
“Sick! Freak-face, you eat mustard in the morning?!”
“Yes! I can’t believe you put syrup on your goetta, that’s so disgusting.”
“Mustard’s disgusting.”
All I had to do was sit back and watch—and drive of course—as they threw down their cases for each topping. I was almost certain if they had both been in the back seat there would’ve been a fight. Over goetta. Ali claimed goetta had to be baked, while Jen said fried. All the while, I doubled over the steering wheel, trying to focus on driving while I laughed.
When we reached Kroger, my partners in crime made a b-line for the meats. They stopped only once, distracted by icing cookie sandwiches made to look like frogs, and then they were back on their mission. We found the sausages easy enough, causing a scene next to the hot dogs. We were all calling it out now.
“Goetta! Goet-ta!”
Deli workers stared. Late night Kroger shoppers altered their paths around us so to not get too close. We were diseased. We were insane. We were too happy for a midnight Kroger run.
We scanned the sausages up and down. Mild, country style, hot, lean, fat-free…
“IT’S GOETTA!!!” Jen’s hand snatched up a small beige tube in the forgotten bottom corner of the sausages and raised it high over her head. Screaming and flailing her arms, Ali grabbed it from her to read the label.
“It is! We found it!”
What I had expected to be a more grand and sophisticated food turned out to be just another tube of sausage. It looked a lot like fruit cake…only with less color and less…cake…
Jen was our parade leader, holding the goetta high over her head as we made our way to the check-out lanes. All the while Ali walked half doubled over, again to avoid peeing herself, making as much noise as possible.
“Ali, Ali. Let’s not get kicked out before we can buy it.”
We made it out safely and were back home in a matter of minutes, huddled around the stove, frying up disks of meat and oats, documenting every second with Jen’s digital camera. These are my friends. I thought, then again…we are the company we keep, right?
The smell of goetta was interesting, more like old sausage…left-over hamburgers. I agreed to try both syrup and mustard to appease the girls (syrup was better) and they began calling everyone they knew to see if they’d ever had goetta. Unabashed by the number of no’s and the many voice-mail inboxes we reached, we left long explanations of goetta and sang Christmas carols to our sleepy friends. We soon raided the fridge. Chocolate delight, doughnuts, pizza, goetta. It was our greatest smorgasbord, all washed down with a couple bottles of Ale-8. It was a night of local favorites, a night of triumph. I had goetta for the first time. The Three Musketeers were back in action. Our appetites and adventures appeased, we soaked up each other’s company in the yellow light of my 1 a.m. kitchen, munching on goetta and cracking open walnuts just to see if we could get them out whole.
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