There is something to be said for beginning a daily writing practice. I know, I know. I’ve sung this tune before. I wish I remembered the words. Each time I set off down the “I’m going to write a-poem-a-day” road, I am pleasantly surprised by how, once I start writing, the poems keep coming. It’s the “if you build it, they will come” theory of poetry.
Likewise, and this happened with my dear June Cleaver poems, now that I have opened up the portal for Mary to speak to me, she just keeps popping up in the strangest places, with the most interesting ideas. Take today’s morning message, for instance. Well, I can’t really explain it. Maybe the poem will.
Please don’t forget to take a minute to stop by the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project blog. There are some mighty fine poems being written!
Mary Buys the Refrigerator Repairman Flowers
The other women say she is lucky
to have a man come to her house
at all, say the tools are a bonus.
He says he is a good man,
and she believes him—
the heavy boots, the scent of restoration.
She has spent a long time being a mother,
knows how to lean in a doorway,
how to hand over the right wrench,
how to kneel and be thankful.
He tells her he will see
if she has power,
if her couplings are poor,
if she has any resistance.
This is the electricity portion of our house call.
Mother of the Ice Box.
Mother Most Frozen.
Mother with a Tiny Light Inside.
While his head is in the freezer
take out your kitchen scissors,
trim your dying bouquet.
Strip the stems, slice the old thorns,
pull off each brittle petal until only your face remains.
Oh, Queen of Handymen.
Oh, Blessed Homemaker.
Your lips and eyes in the crevice of an ice jam.