Sponsored by Workhorse, Lexington Poetry Month is an easy to use
platform for poets to publish and share their work in an attractive
way. The community is supportive and diverse, commenting and
encouraging one another throughout June. Money we raise goes
to maintaining the cost of the website and publishing the yearly
anthology. Our goals are to provide every poet (~150) a copy of
the anthology, lower printing costs, and expand opportunities
offered during Lexington Poetry Month, such as featured readings
and poetry workshops.
IYou know you’re in trouble
when baby sister and 70 are
Juxtapositioned.
We are not juxtapositioned,
living far apart in miles and in the intimacy
perhaps only
experienced with tiny children.
Poop upstair exasperated my Sister-in-law when
her three were all down with stomach flu,
Poop downstairs, I’m up to my elbows in poop!
That kind of intimacy. Only my sister-in-law
didn’t use the word poop.
My sister was a toddler and a glorious child before
she was a mom and a grandma, dealing with her own intimacies.
A relationship is made up of memories and I still
hold some that have their due date decades in the past.
Not dated.
The nourished five-year old, nourishes.
The child cared for cares for others: mother,
father, husband, sons, grandkids.
I remember walking her to the
Sixth Avenue School one morning.
We were late and Florence was afraid to go in.
She was seven.
Somehow, I persuaded her through her tears.
The school was a scary place
but she trusted me, knew I loved her
to the point of idiocy.
True love is always beyond sense.
I watched her enter that miserable school
but felt unable to pull her back.
Pull her back to my wild life
of breaking rules and playing hooky?
I didn’t know what I was doing,
how could I impose it on a seven-year-old?
But when we talk on the phone, I still hear that child who trusted me, cloaked now
in a funny adult, funny because
we share the same odd sense of everything.
Though I persuaded her
into Sixth Avenue School, she learned
to play hooky when
she had to, show up when
she wanted to
and when we needed her.
Always when we needed her.
—————————————————————–
Somehow I posted poem title without the poem. I’m dangerous like that. So here’s the poem in the comments.
Poop upstairs and downstairs! I loved her to the point of idiocy. What a charming tale.
I like the time shift, felt time fall away as the poem sparked similar memories of my own – which is how it is, really, with those lifelong relationships and recollections.
IYou know you’re in trouble
when baby sister and 70 are
Juxtapositioned.
We are not juxtapositioned,
living far apart in miles and in the intimacy
perhaps only
experienced with tiny children.
Poop upstair exasperated my Sister-in-law when
her three were all down with stomach flu,
Poop downstairs, I’m up to my elbows in poop!
That kind of intimacy. Only my sister-in-law
didn’t use the word poop.
My sister was a toddler and a glorious child before
she was a mom and a grandma, dealing with her own intimacies.
A relationship is made up of memories and I still
hold some that have their due date decades in the past.
Not dated.
The nourished five-year old, nourishes.
The child cared for cares for others: mother,
father, husband, sons, grandkids.
I remember walking her to the
Sixth Avenue School one morning.
We were late and Florence was afraid to go in.
She was seven.
Somehow, I persuaded her through her tears.
The school was a scary place
but she trusted me, knew I loved her
to the point of idiocy.
True love is always beyond sense.
I watched her enter that miserable school
but felt unable to pull her back.
Pull her back to my wild life
of breaking rules and playing hooky?
I didn’t know what I was doing,
how could I impose it on a seven-year-old?
But when we talk on the phone, I still hear that child who trusted me, cloaked now
in a funny adult, funny because
we share the same odd sense of everything.
Though I persuaded her
into Sixth Avenue School, she learned
to play hooky when
she had to, show up when
she wanted to
and when we needed her.
Always when we needed her.
—————————————————————–
Somehow I posted poem title without the poem. I’m dangerous like that. So here’s the poem in the comments.
Nce portrait of your baby sister
Poop upstairs and downstairs! I loved her to the point of idiocy. What a charming tale.
I like the time shift, felt time fall away as the poem sparked similar memories of my own – which is how it is, really, with those lifelong relationships and recollections.
When they’re no longer part of your daily life, memories are the daily glue that keep them there.