8 a.m.

[Thanks!]

letter to a friend’s toddler after my miscarriage

when you were Adam

you were all sweet banana mush

piggy squeals and doo dahs

wiggly legs in my wagon

today you are a child

you tug my blood-stained thigh

re-marking the silver bands

around all I’ve lost

someday you will be Adam again

you will skate past

my chalet of dry tears

not knowing my name

Ferns

A         week    of         sun       and

under               garage              eaves,

baby    fists     uncurl,            stretch

slender             hands               up

in         praise   of        feathers.

Armed with     lace,     palm

trees     without

trunks, theme

park for

lady

bugs.

In time

what happens to songs when they're no longer sung

the ones no one translates, the ones forgotten
   when the fashion changed, when you outgrew all that

what happens to high school songs with
tight T-shirts, feathered hair and no boyfriend
family gathering songs singing German on full stomachs
record store summer job minimum wage songs
camp counsellor songs that no one can stand any more
where do they go

what happens to the time that moves through you
that you learn to count in threes and fours
that you mark out on black and white keys
   in the steps between waking and sleep

what happens in the distance
from one note to the next

Berries

My mother squatted

in the heat, breathing

through contractions, filled

one last pail of perfect

sweetness for her mother-in-law

who, the day we left the delivery

room, would be wanting

fresh jam.

And every birthday,

when my mother

whips me up an angel

food cake with strawberries,

I imagine myself slipping out

between those tidy

rows of straw,

only the umbilical cord

around my neck

to hold me together.  

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. Other than incredulity at my Oma for forcing a 9-month-pregnant woman to pick berries. (And I wasn't actually born until she got to the hospital, but I was born with the cord wrapped.)

untitled inspired by Native Health's Cancer Care Photo Voice Project

untitled

mother how you echo through my life

each day that you are gone the sound of your voice fades a little more

the feel of your cheek on my cheek        so long ago

yet lately time is on speed        it is hurling me towards you

but I put the brakes on        take multi-vitamins

daily walks to ward off an early death

I don’t want my son to be motherless

without you I wandered in and out        weaving a life

but like my knitting there were holes I could not fix

so each night I unraveled it all        tried to start over

without you        there are holes

I cannot fix        without you I am a motherless adult

child of Lorraine Emily Denham        granddaughter of Jonina Buason

your mother and I share a name                but she had 17 children

I had one but wanted two        remember momma how you came to me

in my dreams        how you sat on the chair by bed to comfort me

when I lost my girl        a daughterless mother         a motherless daughter

I have no reflection           yet there are echoes of you everywhere

in picture frames you smile        still    inside I long to feel you

I walk a tightrope between you        and the death that is calling to me

I walk a tightrope between you and my son        between you and my disappearing daughter

and then my son smiles        holds up his tomato plant and I see you

shining in his eyes        you offer so many clues

that you are not gone        you still echo throughout my life

Refilled

Jaws open, wide O sheeted

with rubber dam pegged onto teeth.

Earplugs, stuck in to shut out 

metallic grind and scrape,

don't. Tipped back in the chair,

pressure of gloved hands,

water-spray and Darth Vader hiss

of suction hose. Drill exchanged

for drill, changing pitch

from whine to snarl.

Next the rubber-cement reek

of composite quartz-plastic goop.

Better than the old kind, 

hardened with a UV wand, 

thick purple light-finger.

Bite down now and still more

grinding. Bite again— all right?

Exit with puffed cheek,

drooping lip. It's better

than a piercing ache, hard yank,

a bleeding gap. It is. It is.

Daddy's girl

When my dad dies

my vote will no longer

cancel his.

When my dad dies

the men pointing

infected needles

at daddy’s girls

around every corner

will fly away

with the fairies

in shared sadness

that no one remains

to believe.

When my dad was a boy

he drove a motorcycle

off the barn roof.

I loved him then.

When my dad married my mom

he said let’s keep this simple.

She agreed, but

in a moment of weakness

opened her legs

and let me out.