Long Weekend
Her shoes on the floor next to the pot-bellied stove
do not have holes in them, as her father said,
but rather triangles and rectangles
and everyone is wearing them
laced up to below the ankle.
Her friend Marjorie, who has lots of shoes
but no boots, has pink ones
and Sheryl has a white pair
and even my new stepdaughter’s real mother has shoes like this.
Her used Band-Aid lies in fetal position
on the new white sofa cushion,
her hair twister on the kitchen counter
along with a handful of pens grabbed from my desk
and then abandoned,
her clothes like crumbs of her
scattered down the hall.
She is asleep in the loft of my study,
in the nest she has chosen
for a place to stash herself, along
with those collected objects of my past
that have captured her fancy as she helped
with our unpacking of boxes.
With them, she has created a little world within our world:
a painted blown egg from the Tucson street fair,
assorted brushes and antique hair rollers,
hair combs I bought in Peking, African baskets to put them in,
a beach chair, a sheepskin rug, and her stuffed dog.
Stealing into my study to find paper and my one remaining pen,
I hear her gentle pre-teen snores from the high space
at the top of the ladder on the wall behind my desk.
My new daughter––with us for our first weekend
as we open boxes in our new house.
The bouquet of wildflowers on the bookcase––
California poppies, creeping Jenny, sprays of honeysuckle.
She has learned all their names, along with moss roses, aloe vera and lobelia,
collecting them in her sorties out to the deck to scare away the jays
and feed their peanuts to the squirrels.
She loves this house and wanted to unpack one more box
before bedtime—my bathroom box that held handy hair rubbers
and the tiny Chinese combs ––both of them speedily added to her purloined collection.
She calls me Mom, her knee sticking through her Christmas tights.
She is a girl I can’t keep together—
already a hole in the turquoise top we bought together yesterday—
four tops, four pairs of tights
and a pink jacket.
Socks, next visit.
When she leaves to go back home, I plant Dahlias and purple Salvia.
I find the hidden box of toothbrush, toothpaste, and acne medicine
she has secreted in her loft above as though staking her claim.
I find cups to put them in,
put them on the counter in the bathroom next to ours.
For dVerse Poets. Here is the challenge:
- Pick a poem you’ve already written — a favourite, one that needs a second look, one that never reached its full potential (maybe a shorter one for tonight’s exercise). This is the ‘before poem’.
- Make a copy and give it the “Bök test” – highlight all the nouns – could they be more concrete, more specific? now do the same with the verbs — can they be more active? Now do the same with the adjectives & adverbs…
- Look for the uncanny – can you find a ‘rainforest of chandeliers’, ‘a sky as blue as a car accident,’ ‘a speech as hard as a machine gun’?
- Publish both poems – the ‘before’ and ‘after’ – on your blog.
- Did anything surprise you? Did the poem lurch off in an unexpected direction, like a body laid out in a mortuary suddenly sitting up and asking for a cheese sandwich?
And here is the original poem, written in June of 1987:
Long Weekend
Her shoes on the floor next to the pot-bellied stove
do not have holes in them, as her father said,
But rather triangles and rectangles
And everyone is wearing them
Laced up to below the ankle.
Marjorie, who has lots of shoes
but no boots, has pink ones
and Sheryl has a white pair
and even her real mother has shoes like this.
Her used Bandaid curled on the white sofa cushion,
Her hair twister on the kitchen counter
Along with a handful of borrowed pens,
Her clothes like crumbs of her
Scattered in the hall.
She is asleep in the loft
in the nest where she has collected my lost belongings,
captured from their packing boxes–
the painted blown egg from the Tucson street fair–
the hair combs from Peking––baskets to put them in––
a beach chair, sheepskin, her stuffed dog.
Stealing into my study to find paper and a pen that works,
I hear her gentle pre-teen snores
from the high space
at the top of the ladder above my desk.
Our new house, my new daughter –with us for our first weekend
as we open boxes.
The bouquet of wildflowers on the table__
California poppies, creeping jenny, sprays of honeysuckle.
She collects them in between the squirrels
and saving peanuts from the jays,
learning all the names of moss roses, aloe vera and lobelia.
She loves this house and wants to unpack one more box
Before bedtime—a bathroom box that might hold hair rubbers
and the tiny Chinese comb missing from her purloined collection.
She calls me Mom, her knee sticking through her Christmas tights.
She is a girl I can’t keep together—
Already a hole in the turquoise top we bought together
Yesterday—four tops, four pairs of tights
And a pink jacket.
Socks, next time.
When she leaves, I plant Dahlias and purple Salvia.
I find a better basket for her hair curlers and brushes,
I find the hidden box of childrens’ toothbrushes, find cups,
Put them under the sink in the guest bathroom.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 