Boxing

I have spent the day digging through boxes,

separating the future from the past,

deciding what still has value and worth.

Naturally, there are too many books,

too many sketchbooks still empty,

too much paper, paint, sundries.

 

This means a lot of time spent shuffling

box to box, organizing and reorganizing

all the bits and pieces and paraphernalia,

hastily scribbled notes and plans:

lists of artists, lists of poets to read,

lists of websites to explore and bookmark,

 

names of people who wouldn’t remember me now.

There are years of notes from my devotionals,

in-depth studies of words and their meanings,

notes from webinars and conferences,

as my career took me from art gallery,

to museum, to archive, to historic site.

 

I have moved many of these boxes home to home

for over twenty years, some even thirty.

Every time I open one, even if it is to diminish it,

it is a treasure, a touchstone for a moment

I have somehow forgotten, a memorial 

to the person I once was, and sometimes remember.

Baptisms

I have a memory from my childhood of standing poolside, and

someone running past me and hitting me with their elbow or shoulder,

and being knocked into the thick, muffling water.

I remember a lot of flailing. I remember reaching for air.

 

I remember trying to find my way back to the surface, and

calling for help – but my were lungs already too full, and my sight dark.

I remember a splash and being pulled up by my arms

and thrown onto my stomach on the rough concrete.

 

I remember sputtering and coughing up water, and

hoarse gasps, and the endless emptying of lungs;

the weakness of my arms trying to support my own weight;

the way fear wound its way inside my mind.

 

I still don’t enjoy swimming, whether in groups or alone.

I’m more comfortable with something in between me and the water –

the buffer of air mattress or board, kayak or boat;

the accessible option of a dock or the beach.

 

It’s one thing to swim and splash and play with my boys

in four feet of water at the local YMCA –

it’s entirely another to find yourself

floating without bearings in the middle of a lake.

 

I ask my mother if this ever happened, and she doesn’t know.

I can’t be bothered to ask my father.

I question whether this ghost of a memory is even real,

but I was scared of the water for years.

 

Even when I was preparing to be baptized,

I remember my discomfort with being immersed.

It was more than simply ceremony.

Some water only seeks your death, not rebirth.

 

it's been a year

let me know when

it’s safe again

to hold you, or

to tell you how i really feel

 

it’s been a year, and

i’ve never felt more lonely

 

every conversation begins

with how we’re doing

every confusion only

empties us more

 

it’s been a year, and

we just keep moving

 

line upon line

precept upon precept

left foot, right foot

one breath after another

 

it’s been a year, and

hope deferred makes the heart sick

 

so we distract ourselves

with small things

carve time into new shapes

fill the shelves with books

 

it’s been a year, and

it’ll be another year

 

until i can hold you

so let’s hold onto that

it will give us something

we can use to fix each other

grinding

my teeth hurt 

i’ve been grinding them 

in my sleep

every time i speak
too passionately
it hurts

someone 

stop me before 

i say too much

they say 

enamel is stronger 

than bone

bone is stronger 

than steel, ounce for ounce 

all that pounding

just to make 

some thing flat 

a sword, perhaps

some tool for wounding,
or removing teeth 

all those edges

disarticulated mumbling
while i dream of wielding words
like swords

iron may sharpen iron
but all that grinding
makes my teeth hurt

Neighbours

I wanted to tell you
a story that would give you hope.

Instead, I sit in silence,
turn the pages of a book
I’m not reading.

I realize I’m grinding my teeth
so I take a deep breath

and head to the kitchen,
pour myself a drink,
and look out the window
into my neighbour’s window
where they stand.

We raise our glasses
to each other.

They turn away.
I close the curtains.

Perhaps one day we’ll speak

of the time

we wordlessly raised our glasses

across the empty walkway

in the early evening

and smile.

I return to my book.

Start the chapter again.