line upon line

i’m constantly collecting lines.

i’m not sure that’s useful.

perhaps i could become a poet

of fragments, or find a way

to shoehorn them into ghazals.

 

i fill page after page

with these bits and pieces –

journals full of disconnection

while i try to find some shape

to form them into a poem.

 

i must be foolish to believe in poetry;

that it is so necessary. so urgent.

 

i chase down the words

before i forget them,

collect them like butterflies.

or marbles. or stamps.

 

sometimes i think it is enough

to simply gather them together,

display them in array –

let someone else do all the work.

                        it’s tempting.

 

maybe the poetry is found

in the gaps, the spaces between

the edges, where the line

breaks, where you and i dance,

and the whispering breath.

the weight of books

i’ve always

loved the weight

of a good book

in my hand.

as a child

in Toronto

i exhausted

my librarian;

how much

i used to read.

 

when visiting

second-hand

bookstores

i still look for

that series

about animals

i scoured

over and over;

where i learned

that ostriches

don’t bury

their heads

in the sand,

that tuataras

have a third

eye, that

hyraxes are

related to

elephants

and manatees,

that birds

of paradise are

gloriously odd.

 

in university

my backpack

was full of books,

how satisfying

the thick thud

on study tables.

i discovered

other beauties:

van Gogh and

his passions,

Klee and his

moodiness,

Mondrian and

his measured

stillness,

the Abstract

Expressionists

and all their

spattered glory.

 

i still carry

every page

with me,

the body’s

memory

curled

around

each book

cradled

in my hands,

the turned

pages like

feathers.

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