Güd wrtr

I used to wish that I’d ridden more
than bikes as a kid, or perhaps pedaled

my pink two-wheeler across the road
to the stables butting up to the state park,

and plunked down the dollar-fifty to ride.
I’d have needed lessons, tippy-over kid

that I was, and in those days no one sat
astride wearing a helmet. But still. Now

I wish I’d said yes to standing beside a being
who towered over me, full of power

and the ability to harm, should it want to,
but who—as with every equine I’ve had

the pleasure to meet since—looked down
at me from a lofty stance with kind brown

eyes, the kind that say to a child:
I can be your friend, especially if you open

your palm that hides apple slices or bits
of carrot that I will hoover into my mouth,

leaving your hand slick with slobber,
which you should know is just one way

I offer my gratitude and affection.

for Marilyn

On the brink, over the edge,
between breaths, heartbeats, tears,

underneath the weight of it all,
without what is needed, wanted,

you find yourself going round,
not necessarily in confusion,

but moving toward an unnameable
something, though you may not be able

to discern what—opposite of where you
thought you were, or should, or

wish to be. But if you look beneath,
beside, beyond—despite the difficulty

of the moment—something you’ve
long attracted crouches near.

Call it to you, even if you don’t
recall its name. It will come

carrying a gift in its teeth,
a generosity of spirit that you

have long offered to others, brought
back and dropped at your feet,

a little drooly, perhaps, but a
kindness nonetheless. Pick it up.

Pat the one who delivered it, who
looks at you now with adoring eyes.

Say yes.

each of you has written upon my body

the story of moments shared, in tenderness,
in urgency, tracing lines across my skin,
dropped kisses here and there and there—

so long ago that my memory cannot easily
summon it—but love stored in too-soon-
to-melt flesh holds it close,

deep in the marrow, tucked into cells
like the sweetest hugs—each encounter
a kind of kiss that returns

at the oddest times—like driving into
a winter sunset, one that begs me
to stop the car, pull over and

stand in the cold to commemorate
in pixels what can only truly be
registered by heart,

to feel a gasp at the gorgeousness
of last light that sends shivers of
recall down my spine,

a thank you on my lips that somehow
still remember yours and yours
and yours.

Today I’m featuring a special guest poet who found this poem coming to her
in much the same way that they show up for me. Bravo, Ma!

•••

“Propitious,” a word
seldom used these days,
or, perhaps,
any days,
popped up in
conversation, and,
prompted the question:

What would it be like
as a prompt
for my wordsmithing
daughter,
who effortlessly pours
gems
onto the written page
for all to read
and treasure
thru their evolving day?

—Darlene Haag

•••

propitious: (adj) full of promise, advantageous; favorably inclined

I just burst out laughing
at myself when texts blast
the camera-that-makes-phone-

calls out of its inert state,
forcing my aging brain to puzzle
out current-day acronyms.

The one that read TIA startled
me into a fast response:
Did you have a stroke?

to which the sender returned
a series of guffawing emojis,
masking, I think, a smidgen

of condescension: It means
Thanks In Advance. Oh, yes,
my level of out-of-it-ness

increases each year. I recently
learned IMHO from someone
who was definitely not humble

about an opinion, and that COB
does not refer to corn. WTF?
Some seem obvious: GF, BF, BFF.

And I’ve been HBDing for decades.
But HMU? MFW? OOTD? The
longtime teacher in me likes to

to amuse younger folks who grin
as they patiently explain to this OL
that LOL is so passé, that the kids

text IJBOL now. Ah, I say, but here’s
an oldie but goodie that people
pecked out on antiquated pieces

of technology called typewriters
or scribbled by hand on an old-
fashioned card that you’d slide

into an envelope, onto which you’d
affix a stamp and mail at a post
office—a classic that now leaps

through the miracle of cyberspace
to light up our devices and makes
me 🙂 every time I see it:

XOXO.

•••

If you, like me, need translations:

IMHO: In my humble opinion
HMU: hit me up
MFW: my feeling when
OOTD: outfit of the day
COB: close of business
HBD: happy birthday
OL: old lady
LOL: laugh out loud (you know this one…)
and, of course,
IJBOL: I just burst out laughing

(for the late, great Brian Hamlin, who bestowed the nickname,
and for Linda, Jim and others who remember it)

I might be the only woman in the world
who loves her hair just as it (mostly) is,
originally showing up curly and blonde,
grownups marveling at the ringlets
on my small head. And it stayed that
way, refusing to be tamed as I grew,
admiring the long, straight hair of
my teenaged peers.

Though I struggled to straighten it
at times, in college I gave in to the frizz,
allowing a kind woman to apply stinky
chemicals, perming it, turning it into
consistent tight curls that turned
my head into a poof of dandelion,

which prompted the wittiest man
in the newsroom at my second job,
to call me Blizzardhead, quickly
adopted by other colleagues
I came to adore.

With the decades, I watched the puffball
loosen, slink back to its original curl,
darkening, then lightening again to ashy
beige waves, then to ashy gray and what
one generous soul called dove gray.

A new hair hero urged color onto
my pale spirals for a time until another
follicle philosopher sternly advised
against it.

Why? I asked, sitting in her chair
before the mirror, taking in the many
shades of age snowing my blizzardhead.

Because when the goddess gives
you hair like that, the wise woman said,
you leave it alone.

It’s in freeping neon, my friend,
and if that’s not a literal sign,
I don’t know what is.

I don’t care how old you are,
how odd looking or sounding
you think you are:

Someone you don’t yet know
is gonna love schlubby old you
because—and I’m not wrong about

this—you are not as schlubby as
you think you are. How do I know?
When we met, I knew I would

soon adore you, and I didn’t care
that you mixed stripes with florals
or that you tripped over your feet,

or any of the things that you think
make you unlovable. Nope, there
was something endearing about

you from the get-go, and I’m not
the only one who has noticed.
Truly.

So chin up, buttercup. You still haven’t
met all the people who are going
to love you. And oh, what a good,

good thing that is to tuck in your
pocket and carry with you to
touch now and again as you

walk through this world,
the only one we have, the one
with so many people, some of

whom—I promise—are just
gonna love your sweet old
extraordinary self.

You had to be careful when Grandma
came at you for a hug. She was what
we called an enthusiastic hugger,
which was lovely in its way, but,

depending on her choice of jewelry
that day, you could end up with an
imprint in your chest thanks to
one of her stabby brooches.

No one would tell her this, of course,
but my sister and I would eye the
conglomeration of chunky gems
winking at us, pinned between

her collarbone and shoulder, to
see if we could weather the embrace
in such a way as to avoid the stabby
brooch, not something her two

youngest granddaughters generally
admired. So imagine my surprise
when cousin Pat recently presented
us with some of Grandma’s costume

jewelry, and I found myself chuckling
over the pieces shared with my sister
and niece. “You got a stabby brooch!”
I chortled when Lauren showed off

a 3-D circle the size of a small jar lid
crusted with layered purple bits
sure to pierce the chest of a beloved
hugged tight. I, too, got a semi-stabby

brooch doing an impression of linked
snowflakes gleaming in white rhinestones
and a delicate pearl choker, one clasp
hanging by a tired thread.

No matter. These are not for wearing.
They’re bejeweled portals back in time,
links to someone who loved us so much
that her crushing hugs left a permanent

impression far deeper than we ever
imagined.

Forgive me, Father,
for I have committed
the (I hope) pardonable
sin of not only paying
for a car wash, but not

using my own two good
hands to wash Mother’s
car, which I am using
a day a week to drive her

places, but which I am
also using every other day
to drive my older-than-you-
ever-knew-me self around.

That is not to say that I’m
incapable of washing a car
   —I’m not—
but there are days when
time is at a premium and
you’re driving right by
the car wash with the funky
name and cute duck logo,

and something whispers
in your ear (maybe the car
itself?), Wash me, which
someone could well have
drawn in the month-old leaf
grit dusting the back window.

And so, heeding the call of
the almighty beckoning, I
pull in, pay the it-costs-how-
much-but-I-don’t-care fee,
then pause at the maw
of the beast, always unsure
if I’ve correctly lined up
the left front tire in the slot
to carry us through.

But divine intervention, well,
intervenes, and as it tugs me in,
thou art with me. And I
am in the back seat with Donna,
and we are moving through a
long-ago car wash, thrilled that
we do not have to wait outside,
but that we, too, get to ride along—

blessed by the holy water of
powerful squirters, watching
the hula skirt chamois dance
over the windshield, feel
ourselves buffed shiny by
the whirling dervishes
that brush up and over us,

washed by heavenly purple
soapsuds, then blown out
by a supersized hair dryer,
and emerge into the light,
both squeaky and clean,

ready to drive off into our
lives, so powerfully absolved,
so unbelievably blessed.

(for Henry)

What set of miracles had to occur
to set you in a backpack on your
the back of your grandma, who is
my sister, we two who came through
your great-grandma—our mama who
sheltered us womb mates?

And then your grandma made your
mama, who made you, and now a
small cross section of our family unit
comes together to shop at IKEA
with our second cousin Robyn
and her daughter Charlotte—all this
shared DNA bouncing between us.

And, following the prescribed path
through the great store, how perfect
is it that at just the right moment
we find ourselves smack dab in
the cafeteria with their famous
Swedish meatballs, so prominent
in our family food tree?

Your grandma’s grandma’s mama
came from Sweden and passed
her recipe onto the grandma
three of us knew—her crocheting/
quilting/brownie-baking hands
rolling meatball after tiny meatball,
counting every one that she first
browned in a skillet, then baked
in the oven and set before family
who gobbled them like bon-bons.

None of us in the succeeding
generations has been able to
accurately reproduce Grandma’s
Swedish meatballs, though culinary
queen Robyn has come close.

And you, little fella—riding high,
nodding off, waking for a bottle,
rolling along in the stroller—
you know none of this. But oh,
what you carry inside you—
mystery and history and genetic
code from other familial strands
tucked deep in your cells.

You can’t see it, though we can—
in your merry eyes when you laugh,
in your gummy grin, in your drool—
the molecules of your ancestors
who got you here, who got us here,

some of us craving meatballs,
as we imagine that you,
once you have teeth,
may someday
love, too.