Just eight more poems to write for NaPoWriMo. I am exhausted, but I keep rising to the occasion, which is progress for me.
This morning I actually READ some poems before writing this one, something I never have done. And I looked into a book, Dorianne Laux's Finger Exercises for Poets, which I saw lying on Alix Klingenberg's desk and then I promptly fell in love with her desk.
I am also realizing how much good it did me to go a few years without writing. I have a sort of seasoned confidence now, and because none of this is to further my "career," or reach some lofty publishing goals, I am abler to relax and just let it be a process.
Today you are getting the entire process, from beginning to finished product, which is, of course, still only a draft of many drafts to come. Also, I'm pretty sure I started with drafts that will become a separate poem from this one--I like a LOT of the detail there, but none of it made it into this poem. The heart of pine is in the photo above, which doesn't do it justice.
The Heart Inside My Mother’s Heart
for Alix Klingenberg
Just before she died,
my mother gave me a whorl of wood,
the still-warm and throbbing
heart of my favorite pine.
I held it in my hands while
she choked on those last few breaths,
and then released her ghost into
the house, into the dog-day
August air.
After her body was gone
and the memorial was over
and whatever leftover tears
were swallowed and stored up for
all the days of missing her that
were yet to come,
I laid the heart away
to contemplate another day.
During the many years following her death,
I would sometimes look at the heart
lying in its box and think,
oh yes. What a lovely thing my mother gave to me.
Then I would close it up again.
Until this morning when
I lifted it out and
cradled it in my hands,
its magic swirling body
opening up,
impossibly large,
becoming an enormous door.
I stepped inside it,
into the woods behind our house,
the woods of my youth
still thick and dark,
and there was my mother,
still inside her withered broken body,
beckoning to me to follow her.
I followed her deeper into
that old thicket,
until we reached the still-living pine
I had loved so well.
And standing there beneath
the glinting sunlight,
inside the whooshing winds of that wood,
she handed me an axe.
I read her thoughts
as we had always read
each others thoughts,
and the distance that had
grown up between us
collapsed into nothing--
her forehead was
pressing against my forehead,
her cold cream hands
were touching my face.
And so I split the tree down the middle,
lifted out the red oh so red heart.
I split open the diseased
trunk of my mother’s body,
and put it inside her.
And she became at once
a flowering and lively thing,
running in and out of the trees,
laughing like she used to laugh
when I was young,
too young to recall it now.
I watched her then,
growing younger and younger,
until she became the golden girl
I’d only seen in photographs;
her laugh tinkled like tiny bells
and then she ran to me and took my hands,
pulling me toward a wood so dark
I could not see into it.
I said, I cannot come with you. I cannot go where you are going.
She tugged on my hands a moment,
then she let go and ran headlong
into the darkness that
swallowed her up.
And the heart of the pine that
was resting in my hands
sealed itself up,
and I laid it away,
to contemplate
on another day.
DRAFT~
Just before she died, my mother gave me a whorl of wood, the still-warm and throbbing heart of my favorite pine. I held it in my hands while she choked on those last few breaths, and then released her ghost into the house, into the dog day August air.
After her body was gone and the memorial was over and whatever leftover tears
were swallowed and stored up for all the days of missing her that were yet to come,
I laid the heart away to contemplate another day.
During the many years following her death, I would see the heart lying in its box and think, oh yes. What a lovely thing my mother gave to me, and then I would close it up again. Until, this morning, when I lifted it out and cradled it in my hands, its magic swirling body opening up, impossibly large, becoming an enormous door.
I stepped inside it, into the woods behind our house, the woods of my youth still thick and dark, and there was my mother, still inside her withered broken body, beckoning to me to follow her.
I followed her deeper into that old thicket, until we reached the still-living tree. And standing there beneath the glinting sunlight, inside the whooshing winds of that wood, she silently handed me an axe.
I split the tree down the middle, lifted out the red oh so red heart. I opened my mother’s body, and put it inside her.
And she became a flowering and lively thing, running in and out of the trees, laughing like she used to laugh when I was almost too young to remember it.
And I watched her, growing younger and younger, until she became the golden girl I’d only seen in photographs; her laugh tinkled like tiny bells and then, she ran to me and took my hands, pulling me toward a wood so dark I could not see into it.
I cannot come with you. I cannot go where you are going. Then she let go my hands and ran headlong into the darkness that swallowed her up and the heart of the pine that was resting in my hands sealed up, a dead thing, a treasure to keep in a box.
DRAFT~
Just before she died, my mother gave me a whorl of wood, the still-warm and throbbing heart of my favorite pine. I held it in my hands while she choked on those last few breaths, and then released her ghost into the house, into the dog day August air.
After her body was gone and the memorial was over and whatever leftover tears
were swallowed and stored up for all the days of missing her that were yet to come,
I laid the heart away to contemplate another day.
During the many years following her death, I would see the heart lying in its box and think, oh yes. What a lovely thing my mother gave to me, and then I would close it up again. Until, this morning, when I lifted it out and cradled it in my hands, its magic swirling body opening up, impossibly large, becoming an enormous door.
I stepped inside it, into the woods behind our house, the woods of my youth still thick and dark, and there, looking as she did when I was seven-years-old, was my mother, beckoning me to follow her.
I followed her deeper into that old thicket, until we reached the still-living tree. And standing there beneath the glinting sunlight, inside the whoosing winds of that wood, she silently handed me an axe.
And as always in such moments, I knew what to do, we had often dreamed of each other, we had often discussed over breakfast meeting each other during the night. I split the tree down the middle, we lifted out the red oh so red heart, and I opened her body and put it inside her.
DRAFT~
Just before she died, my mother gave me a whorl of wood, the still-warm and throbbing heart of my favorite pine. I held it in my hands while she choked on those last few breaths, and then released her ghost into the house, into the dog day August air.
After the her body was gone and the memorial was over and whatever leftover tears
were swallowed and stored up for all the days of missing her that were yet to come,
I laid the heart away to contemplate another day.
During the many years following her death, I would see the heart lying in its box and think, oh yes. What a lovely thing my mother gave me, and then close it up again. Until, this morning, when I lifted it out and cradled it in my hands, its magic swirling body opening up, impossibly large, becoming an enormous door. I stepped inside it, into the woods behind our house, the woods of my youth, and there, looking as she did when I was seven-years-old, was my mother, beckoning me to follow her.
DRAFT~
I sat in my house holding the heart of the pine,
and it opened in my hands and I stepped into it
It was the heart of the pine
I once covered with ribbons
twirling on that first of May.
Once I shimmed
halfway up
my thighs too tender
I shimmed back down.
Whenever I fell in love,
I carved my initials
and his initials,
my pocketknife
grooving easily into
the pulpy skin.
I used to lie beneath it
the sun rippling through its
bristles.
I used to gather
its cones for Christmas
its boughs for garlands,
I aimed shot down the mistletoe
threatening to choke it,
hung it from the living room ceiling.
the smell intoxicating
the tree’s own being distilled
DRAFT~
Just before she died,
mother gave me
a whorl of wood,
its astringent smell
its still-warm and throbbing
heart.
It was the heart of the pine
I once covered with ribbons
twirling on that first of May.
Once I shimmed
halfway up
my thighs too tender
I shimmed back down.
Whenever I fell in love,
I carved my initials
and his initials,
my pocketknife
grooving easily into
the pulpy skin.
I used to lie beneath it
the sun rippling through its
bristles.
I used to gather
its cones for Christmas
its boughs for garlands,
I aimed shot down the mistletoe
threatening to choke it,
hung it from the living room ceiling.
the smell intoxicating
the tree’s own being distilled
DRAFT~
Just before she died, my mother gave me a whorl of wood, the still-warm and throbbing heart of my favorite pine. I held it in my hands while she choked on those last few breaths, and then released her ghost into the house, into the dog day August air.
After the her body was gone and the memorial was over and whatever leftover tears
were swallowed and stored up for all the days of missing her that were yet to come,
I laid the heart away to contemplate another day.
During the many years following her death, I would see the heart lying in its box and think, oh yes. What a lovely thing my mother gave me, and then close it up again. Until, this morning, when I lifted it out and cradled it in my hands, its magic swirling body opening up, impossibly large, becoming an enormous door. I stepped inside it, into the woods behind our house, the woods of my youth, and there, looking as she did when I was seven-years-old, was my mother, beckoning me to follow her.
DRAFT~
I sat in my house holding the heart of the pine,
and it opened in my hands and I stepped into it
It was the heart of the pine
I once covered with ribbons
twirling on that first of May.
Once I shimmed
halfway up
my thighs too tender
I shimmed back down.
Whenever I fell in love,
I carved my initials
and his initials,
my pocketknife
grooving easily into
the pulpy skin.
I used to lie beneath it
the sun rippling through its
bristles.
I used to gather
its cones for Christmas
its boughs for garlands,
I aimed shot down the mistletoe
threatening to choke it,
hung it from the living room ceiling.
the smell intoxicating
the tree’s own being distilled
DRAFT~
Just before she died,
mother gave me
a whorl of wood,
its astringent smell
its still-warm and throbbing
heart.
It was the heart of the pine
I once covered with ribbons
twirling on that first of May.
Once I shimmed
halfway up
my thighs too tender
I shimmed back down.
Whenever I fell in love,
I carved my initials
and his initials,
my pocketknife
grooving easily into
the pulpy skin.
I used to lie beneath it
the sun rippling through its
bristles.
I used to gather
its cones for Christmas
its boughs for garlands,
I aimed shot down the mistletoe
threatening to choke it,
hung it from the living room ceiling.
the smell intoxicating
the tree’s own being distilled
“I have a sort of seasoned confidence now, and because none of this is to further my ‘career,’ or reach some lofty publishing goals, I am abler to relax and just let it be a process.”
That confidence shines through this work, Rebecca! I so enjoyed the journey that opened before me as I read your poem.
“I have a sort of seasoned confidence now, and because none of this is to further my ‘career,’ or reach some lofty publishing goals, I am abler to relax and just let it be a process.”
That confidence shines through this work, Rebecca! I so enjoyed the journey that opened before me as I read your poem.
Haunting. Very tender.