Hello again!
Two and a half years into the pandemic, starting up again feels like a resurrection of sorts. But I have good news to share. Next year, in the Spring, is the launch date for my first published collection of poems, a chapbook titled Rope Made of Bandages. Preorders will begin later this year, in November.
Leading up to that time, I will be posting weekly poems along with some context for each poem. If poetry isn’t your thing, I will be sharing news about my memoir in progress from time to time.
This poem begins my series. It’s in the online journal SPANK the CARP. If you navigate to their page, you can vote for my poem!
Concrete Square
When I was a kid, I walked on the sidewalks
of Riverside Drive with long steps, artificially
long, awkwardly long steps, one foot in each
concrete square, a tiptoed game of hopscotch
that went on and on. Deep beneath, unknown
to me the ghost river flowed. The ghost river
flowed under Riverside Park where my family
picnicked on pink lemonade and peanut butter
sandwiches. Back then, I wanted the squirrels
to come close. Now they frighten me. Once,
showing off my jungle-gym prowess, I hung
by my knees from a low-hanging branch.
My Dad used a handkerchief to get a piece
of bark out of my eye. I ironed that handkerchief.
After the rest of the ironing was done, as the iron
was cooling, my mother left the last handkerchief
for me. I ironed it flat, creased it into halves,
quarters, eighths, sixteenths. I made a compact
square to go into Dad’s right-hand trouser pocket.
He carried a handkerchief in his pocket almost up
to the day he died. His pants didn’t have pockets
when he was in rehab. Hundreds of times wider
than the Hudson, the ghost river flows. In the ghost
river, all the mothers and fathers are floating.
About this poem: I wrote this poem in May 2018 when I was at the Garrison Institute for a Murphy Writing retreat. It was near Mother’s Day, and it was the first anniversary of my father’s death. According to my journal, I was thinking about the creative process. “I feel like there’s a deep stream that goes on always. Sometimes I’m able to tap into it. It gets easier if I do it every day.” These things collided together: the stream of creativity, Mother’s Day, my father’s death, and one of Peter Murphy’s famous prompts. I sat in the airy lounge of an old monastery and wrote these words.
