Full-time poeming might make each poem feel that much more important, like my Bakken poems make me feel, but what I care about second most, second only to my family, is my job. Sometimes against my will, but I really, really care about my job, and this is a good thing. It is the reason that I am so tired and my back hurts so much from checking student’s heads, in literal and figurative ways, and the reason that all I have on this tired brain right now is work.
A nice thing that happened today is that we got cards appreciating all our extra effort at the jobbie jobs these last few weeks. That is lovely. Acknowledgment is necessary, and feels really nice.
One thing I want to do is to write a poem for my girl’s father, my HP, who does such an astonishing job taking care of all of us, all the time, the one I love widely and immensely, for everything. I’m going to try to do that now, while he is watching soccer, so that we can hang out later.
Here’s to you, HP:
In the enthusiasm of their woot woots, in the great bubbling giggles, that’s where I see you in their grins. What burns light in them comes straight from you. Courage wreaked wide with every arm-flung wrestle, each impulse to take the big step, it comes from you. These big brave windowpane eyes, they come from you, and okay, the big jumps into cold water come from me, but the rest of the bravery is all you. Did you feel valiant in front of your Cervantes poster? Did you feel bold before the broken film projector, when engineering our first kiss? Does the wellspring of their mettle come from your same goofy valor, does it spring from the gutsy ton-ton? Sweet love to me, thrice over now, thank you my song, my tall bough, my great pine, thank you. Look, look at their unhesitating leaps, look on with pride on their curious connections, all sinew and limb, look with great ease on their righteous backlash, these cells all come, in halfsies, from you, somehow. Remember the slanted roofs of their creation, of the roots of our love before the thought of their sticking entered anywhere near us, remember the alcove. It begins there. It all begins there, with flittering breath and tongues, great fear denied, it was us and us to begin with, before us and them, each of us strands waiting to join up and knit up and split and reorganize, a great cellular revolution just biding time, waiting for that one glance, across a bleachered room, back in grad school, leading ceaselessly closer to hilarious love.
Only one goal tonight. Make HP cry. Did I do it? I don’t know. He’s a bit behind in his reading, of course because of the jobbie job. Also I tried to stick a pic with this one, and it didn’t work, which is okay with me. Happy Monday, all my friends.