Author: Christina's Words

“The darkness around us is deep.” ~ William Stafford

“Most of the Days of the Week” by Deirdre Fagan

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry13 Comments

On Monday you make pancakes, pay the bills, clean the floor, wipe down the counters, and begin chopping vegetables for soup. As the knife slices the onion thin, you peel away its outer layer and consider committing seppuku at noon.

On Tuesday you start the Crock-Pot, dust the blinds, rake the leaves, strip the beds, and carry the laundry downstairs. You put the wash on delicate, cold, and as you turn to go upstairs to the hum of the washer balancing its own mind, you longingly consider freshly washed, warmed, and crisp sheets tied gracefully around a rafter and your neck. Those beams appear strong.

Wednesday after tucking the kids into bed and starting the dishwasher, you wash your face, brush and floss your teeth, and line every pill bottle in the medicine cabinet up on the bathroom counter before considering what they will find in the morning. Then you carefully place the bottles back in the cupboard, turn out the lights, and climb into bed yourself, after checking the breaths of your children.

Thursday night you have a little bit too much to drink. Some wine. Several beers. Rum in a hot cup of tea. Then you remember something Nietzsche said about thoughts of suicide getting many through a dark night. This week you’ve made it three and a half days but it isn’t the weekend yet. You aren’t sure if N is right, but you know you can’t drink the antifreeze.

Friday you go out for groceries and consider high speed, a curve, a tree, or maybe that bridge over there. But you probably wouldn’t even be successful and then what a mess you’d make. No one would be there to clean it up. And the kids. Who would make them breakfast?

Saturday, you roll over to turn off the alarm but there isn’t one. A blessing. Shortly thereafter there are kids on top of you, climbing over you, giggling, offering to get you coffee, begging for eggs and bacon, and so you make your way to the kitchen.

When the grease in the bacon pan begins to sizzle, you don’t imagine dousing yourself in it or starting a grease fire. Instead you serve up breakfast and sip your coffee admiring the life you have created, the one still in the making.

 

~ Deirdre Fagan (to read more of Deirdre’s work–and I encourage you to do so–visit her site: deirdrefagan.com. Gratitude to Deirdre for allowing us to share her beautiful poem here with you.)

“Most of the Days of the Week” by Deirdre Fagan first appeared on Melancholy Hyperbole. 

 

“War Horse” by Richard Brautigan

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry

He stands alone in a pasture
but nobody can see him.

He has been made invisible
by his own wounds.

I know how he feels.

– Richard Brautigan, “War Horse”

“Moving to Malibu” by Mary K. Stillwell

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry

Some nights I think of it,
moving to Malibu, just as I stretch,
like a cat stretches, to my full length,
as though I am easing into cool waters.
I imagine the blue of the sea;
the bright green leaves of the geranium
on the patio, the bright pink blooms,
the yellow sun and white sand,
in the distance, white triangles,
from the deck, wind chimes.
I will be as content and as happy
as Balboa. I will have breakfast
at my wicker table and in my wicker chair,
with the cats watching. I will taste
salt on my lips after coffee.
My door will be open. When you come,
you will carry a loaf of bread,
a bunch of flowers. The sunset
is brilliant; we might as well be anywhere.

“Moving to Malibu” by Mary K. Stillwell from Maps and Destinations. © Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2014.

“He says he’s lonely, horribly lonely… (Duras)

On By Christina's WordsIn Music, Quote

“He says he’s lonely, horribly lonely because of this love he feels for her. She says she’s lonely too. She doesn’t say why.”

– Marguerite Duras, The Lover

*

“I Can’t Tell You Why” by the Eagles

“Sister Cat” by Frances Mayes

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry

Cat stands at the fridge,
Cries loudly for milk.
But I’ve filled her bowl.
Wild cat, I say, Sister,
Look, you have milk.
I clink my fingernail
Against the rim. Milk.
With down and liver,
A word I know she hears.
Her sad miaow. She runs
To me. She dips
In her whiskers but
Doesn’t drink. As sometimes
I want the light on
When it is on. Or when
I saw the woman walking
toward my house and
I thought there’s Frances.
Then looked in the car mirror
To be sure. She stalks
The room. She wants. Milk
Beyond milk. World beyond
This one, she cries.

 

from Ex Voto, 1995
Lost Roads Publishers, Little Rock, Ark.

Copyright 1995 by Frances Mayes.