A Chest of Doors

Tuesday, 12/3/24

I read the phrase dust of pigeons in Rebecca Elson’s book A Responsibility to Awe and couldn’t help myself the rest of the day.

A dimness of red.

A shell of song.

A knife of shame.

A bouquet of dust.

A feather of monologue.

A finger of land.

A prayer of whiskers.

A festival of trees.

A throne of worms.

An accordion of worries.

A purse of acorns.

An envelope of blankets.

A hand of clouds.

A box of demands.

An astronomy of birds.

A tube of time.

Wednesday, 12/4/24

Long ago, I checked out a book of poetry at the library. As I read the book, I was astounded by how the poet’s sense of place was similar to my sense of place. The round mountain ridges, the meandering river, the flora, the fauna, the topography, the valley. It wasn’t until I finished reading the book that I realized he was a local poet. It wasn’t until about two months ago that I learned he lived about one mile away from me as the crow flies.

Writer of the line

When we die

may we be a pleasing word

placed in the mouth

of the world.

Today I finished what I am calling his dead book, if I want to be succinct. Of course, the very next poem in the book is about and after Georgia O’Keefe’s painting “Pelvis with the Distance”. Georgia O’Keefe, romancer of the brittle, sun-bleached bones of death. The poet writes of her, What her hands/were given by the skeleton of the world and Who doesn’t want to hear a holy word echoing/along the rock’s split lip?

I spend my days collecting such gorgeous images that I’d wear around my neck. I want to pull poems from books and turn them into the bones I use to stand, walk, and touch.

Thursday, 12/5/24

Think of all the flowers asleep in their potential. Think of the negative space aboveground where the ghosts of them lie.

My face wet with tears, I slipped into the darkness of a room wanting to punish myself, inflict physical pain upon my body. Instead, I took my shirt off and lay down on my acupuncture mat, its microspikes digging into the planes of my back. Just behind me was a window and beyond that window, our cold, dark yard where in the summer the grasses grow wild and flowers score the landscape with their exuberance. But right now it’s cold and nearly Christmas. I had lugged Christmas up from the darkness of the basement. I stood on countertops garlanding this and that. Brian used a fine toothbrush to clean off model trains his father gave him. I played Christmas music, placed a snow globe here, a crocheted Christmas gnome there. Once the storage bins were empty, I turned to Brian, my husband who has been going through a medical malady for nearly seven months that has rendered him depressed and at the mercy of doctors, inconvenience, and medication administrations. Are you getting excited for Christmas yet? I asked, everything warm and glowy around us. I’m getting there, he said, sounding defeated.

I should have hugged him. Given him a knowing look.

But instead I wept and asked if there was anything that I could do. Do I need to do something more? I want to be a good distraction. We’re going to bake cookies soon! I pled. We’re getting the Christmas tree this weekend! I begged. Is there something your mom did that I can do? I implored, immediately apologizing.

The apologies poured from me as I kept crying, followed with a waterfall of I’m fine, I’m fine. You know me! You know how I am! And he does, he knows how I am. After convincing him that I was fine and simply emotional, a surge of anger towards myself welled up inside.

I have been so angry with myself in so many ways. I have been full of so much rage over my own performances. Hindsight has been poisoning me for weeks.

You can’t ask someone to perform wellness for you. It is not fair, I said to the ceiling in the darkness, fists finally releasing, my fingers stretching along carpet. The wind blew beyond the window behind me.

Friday, 12/6/24

Imagine an object. Any object. Think of it for a little while. How do you feel about it?

Now put googly eyes on it.

How do you feel about the object now?

Saturday, 12/7/24

In quantum mechanics, there is a “Many Worlds” interpretation that holds that there are many worlds that exist in parallel at the same space and time of our own. You may have died many deaths already. You may have had your heart broken or repaired in so many ways already. You may have seen the color orange with so many different eyes, although they’re your own. How many books I must have read so far. How many miles walked. How many leaves turned over in my hand so I can see the veins.

Sunday, 12/8/24

Today was

a winding, riverside road of stoicism

a tree of moonlight

a handful of spring

a limb of darkness

a bowl of blue

a fist of possibilities

a wing of winter

a horizon line of steps

a chest of doors

a river of sky

a mirror of ripples

a sky of sycamore

a hardening of sap

a reminder of rooms

a craving of birds

a mug of wax

Monday, 12/9/24

Heavy rain.

I pull the gray

weighted blanket

up the bed.