Celeste, Dad, Grandpa, Mom-Poppy-Nanny-Mom, Grandpa, Dad, Celeste

Smacking of
produce-sticker bindi's on
eight-year old foreheads
the wall of stickers adhered
to file cabinet mammoths
his office
it's not the one
I remember
as a child
drawing for hours
colored permanent markers
the intense smell
telling myself I was
hardcore badass
at 11
finding mold gardens
in Dad's coffeepot
showing him
'eeee'
He wasn't aware
that growth is everywhere
on the station
on the prairie
where I'd rather be
Grandpa says to me
"You tell your Dad,"
meaning 'come out and see me'
and I do and I don't,
I wish I'd been more adamant
especially at the end
I could have cooked for you
could have spent
more time with love
that was instead given
to unveiling suspicion
a partner who'd be riven
from me in two years

At two years, I put my feet
in Grandpa's boots
Mom said 'so sweet'
and there's a photo
that will last longer
than any of us.

The poppies in her garden
the snake made her abandon
who could ever forget that scream?
and her subsequent hesitation
I don't think we played outside
for weeks at a time
and after, not without
her lifting us like the ground
was hot lava,
the color of poppies
which I connected
with my Poppy
married to Nanny
father of Mom
everything had to rhyme
or match
and sometimes that got me
into trouble
what rhymes with monkey?
Don't say that,
Grandpa got angry.
I was so scared,
what did I do wrong?
Why couldn't I say it?
I hardly dared breathe,
in Dad's truck
bouncing over hills
of grass
and fields of berries.
Grandpa was Santa,
after all,
as I said in the eulogy
making his hometown laugh.
After, they said to me,
"We liked that part,
about him being Santa."
Of course they did.
He instituted the town library.
What could be a better gift,
for every day of every year to come,
other than Christmas.

And I'm most grateful for fruit,
without it I wouldn't be alive.
More in common with a pirate
than I thought originally,
once I began to help Dad at work
and really see
where his living comes from.
Produce stickers don't just appear
on plants grown in the field.
So I don't know where all these ones came from,
diverse and multiple,
here for who knows how long,
a sense of the infinite
as if the scientists
collect and analyze
the colors and the texts
between eight-year-old eyes.

Shards in the Schoolyard

And it hit a nerve
not a note not a poem
which she wrote
oh, an omen
which she thinks
I will 'get', and I don't
so the face falls
like glaze down paper walls
crowning the day
with rainbows, sequins
light which shone
on a concrete pad
a jubilant scene,
I picked at the pavement
scraping my nails to collect
bags of metallic plastic
scraps from a fete,
boosting the mood
singing 'teachers pet'
has she learned her lesson yet?
each friend who dismays
pain goes on for days
into weeks into
tears down cheeks
like glue dripping down paper crowns
parties I'm invited
to stay home from
and the blues
of the lights
on the plastic specks
of bright shards
from the schoolyard
bring me gaiety,
when I'd none of my own
to spare, share, or take home
she could say that I know
but I'm pulling back
from assuming she means
to cause woe
after all, I still grow
through cracks in concrete,
through small holes in beads
threading the crowds
seeing no faces
no more tears
finding a shining place
I gazed for miles
into that jeweled haze
whose sunny light
soothed my nerves
for days

(c) Mia Enns 2013 all rights reserved. do not re-use or republish in any form without written permission from me.

Pear

I ate an asian pear this evening

bit into it in the bathroom

unable to wait to do things properly

the scent of rose

as I washed it under faucet

saying vespers that you're blessed

healed and whole

juice and crisp satisfaction

sole owner of that bliss

you introduced me to

sense of humor and timing

I valued in you

skillful in your craft

unable I was, to offer a life raft

years have passed, four

and my memories blur

but I was a different girl back then

and the woman I am today

has different friends.

(c) Maria Enns 2013 all rights reserved

Flounder, flounder! [The Others]

It frustrates me to see others flounder;
to flutter between help and detachment,
assist or with love, let go
acknowledge that others have refused help
as oft as it's been offered.

El otro, the secret
sneaking beneath her strap
thinking there is a map for
this sort of thing.

I had a dream last night
that I was on a stage
with others
and knew no lines.
Realized they all held scripts
and grabbed mine,
saw all the colors
it was printed with
CMYK, he told me
back when I knew nothing about
just about
everything.

Longed to be knowing
but could never see myself so
we traversed the city
talking in ways unique to:
stalin-drenched disappointments
cherry blossom ice cream cones
pictures of natives taken by tourists.
Conversing on what it'd be like
if I were grown, yet still unknown
were his thoughts and the lies I could see
labeled like test tubes over irises.

The others, she said don't breathe a word
every day is lyrics, I was schooled on
how to communicate, and thought
I was cool, it was exciting for a moment-
until it crumpled - stiff paper in a fire,
waiting for the weakness to overcome
completely.

I was still strong then. I envy my young self.
Yet I know so much now.
What price did I pay?
Strength + knowledge = weakness, loneliness
paralysis, insanity... humanity.

Every cheesy joke
coalesces and coagulates
by necessity, into this verse
keep what I need, I will
and I can let go of
all the Others.


(c) Maria Enns 2013 all rights reserved

Shadow Cat

The Cat who leaps is not the cat who lands... or so they say.
More true this is when focus is on a shadow's play.
The feline leaping is of flesh and fur,
though at landing is an intangible blur.
The meow not from a shade emits-
as grimalkin elects to have her fits.
She sees a squirrel and gnashes it to bits
-In shadowland-
with hisses and fierce spits.
My cat is lovelier than her silhouette,
though she does naught to damage it.

(c) Maria Enns 2013 all rights reserved.

Capture

Just as I try to photograph a shadow,
it turns and mocks me to the ground.
What business have I to rely
on scoffing shadows,
of bottles I didn't drink down.

The same goes for tellings of stories;
I have to trust when it comes to the punch
that I will remember the point of the tale,
that I didn't forget not to eat it for lunch.


(c) Maria Enns 2013, all rights reserved

I Remember You

These warm January days, juicy with rain
remind me of summer nights, on my own
A Baltimore apartment, a loft more like
in another life, with dancing bones
and 'Mack the Knife' spinning on the table
working 'cause I'm able, 
Cat is in the pantry sleeping like the gentry
Cereal trails telling me who's been where
one lucky charm here, cascade of cheerios there
Love is in the air.


(c) Maria Enns 2013, all rights reserved.