salvaging

Keep falling for boys that can't love me,
trying to salvage what's left of us,
children of the age where the war is never won—
like backroad trucks pulled by magnets away from ourselves,
sold for spare parts.

To distant from that loss, of being wantneeded in the world,
I salvage
other things—
cedar planks by the railroad tracks
where bone-thin birds nest—
these once were a barn,
held sweet hay, thickropes calmcows
some young man's livelihood.
Piling them in my truck, each splinter
is a hail mary, a curse I let rest
against my teeth. The house of love
is not filled with velvet or satin,
covered in glitter or stripped clean of
bright hair, or even bound in black leather...

As a child I saw houses collapse in upon themselves
like trees falling, some ghosts's life
imploding nail by nail,
sometimes for years.
Houses came down and fences
went up. Dad told me how lucky we were,
to have redwood fence posts,
their invincibilities
while my life continually crashed down
around my ears, left my sparrow bones
ringing shrill as bells.

I could barely see over the
blessed golden grass
that fed each sweet-eyed cow of ours,
clambering over russet posts
I thought I could smell the sea,
the shaded dirt, baby ferns curled
like sleeping cats—I thought
why not build
with this
as the years got leaner and leaner
and the boards on windows I looked through
were torn at by breezes and typhoons,
sometimes pulled off by pianist's fingers and
doe-eyed promises. Saving relationships--
with my father, girl-dog, old car,
these boys that come to me all soft hands
and words that twist like willows
is a dusty age-long fight,
a journey by bus and foot pushing
a shopping cart, folks avoiding
your crusted crinkled eyes, and you trudge
up the road towards a dirt floor
and missing walls and sagging cross beams
and a single chair you could never find
a cushion for, thinking why am I trying
and how will I eat tomorrow,
staring at a pile of redwood planks
as boys leave helplessly,
wordlessly,
one by one.

Some step on nails,
some I send the dogs after.
They never think to bring tools
but termites, magpies come in their wake,
a reverse plague of reminders and constant cleaving.

When the fences go down
the houses will still
be falling, ravens always at the door
as I struggle to lift one
last beam
one steady once-tree
to keep the roof from caving...

soy una quien busco

A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth.

A courageous man went and rescued the bear.
There are such helpers in the world, who rush to save
anyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself,
they run toward the screaming.

And they can’t be bought off.
If you were to ask one of those, “Why did you come
so quickly?” he or she would say, “Because I heard
your helplessness.”

Where lowland is,
that’s where water goes. All medicine wants
is pain to cure.

And don’t just ask for one mercy.
Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet.
Take the cotton out of your ears, the cotton
of consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music.

Push the hair our of your eyes.
Blow the phlegm from your nose,
and from your brain.

Let the wind breeze through.
Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever.
Take the cure for impotence,
that your manhood may shoot forth,
and a hundred new beings come of your coming.

Tear the binding from around the foot
of your soul, and let it race around the track
in front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greed
so tight around your neck. Accept your new good luck.

Give your weakness
to one who helps...

-Rumi

(Ran into this poem at Herbwifemamma's blog...)

The poem is called "Cry Out in Your Weakness", and it's mostly about being strong enough and trusting enough to let "the milk/of loving flow through you". And I vibed with that part too, but the first--the medicine, the flowing pool, "one who helps"... That's me. That's me in a nutshell and a universe every atom.

I'm taking a career/major exploration class in order to find how all my abstract talents and wants and needs in life fit into the concrete workcareerplace, and surprisingly, poetry isn't up there. I love poetry, I am poetry. It is god's gift to me, my words and flow of language, but I don't see myself writing full-time... Maybe this is cognitive behavioral, that the first "real" poetry discussion I got into was MFA's vs. Local poets, i.e. the idea that it takes a degree and proffesional career to write good poetry vs. the value of having a day-job and how that expands and grounds your writing. I still believe in that, and that is why the best, most relatable poets had day-jobs--Plath a professor, WCW a doctor among other things, Al Young held a bazillion different jobs, as have Kimiko Hahn and Marge Pierchy.

Anywaya, so I'm researching majors, and unassumingly open up to the S's.... and to sociology. And social work. And women's studies. (Well, that last one was a given). While I can take all the English courses and pass them and yeah, it'd be fine, these were the ones I'd go out of my way to take. These are the classes I want the reading list for, and to talk with the profesor after, classes with real-life application and learning how society works and analyzing it all to hell--That's what a love about feminism, the way findings and articles are always being criticized and picked apart (man, more positive verbs would be good there), and it's mostly good-natured and expected.

New plan?

Sociology or Social Work Major (with concentration in Community Change)

Double Minor in Women's Studies and Comparitive Literature (which I think will enable me to teach high school social science and English.)

Other news: Joined the Americorps. Will be tutoring and helping run a homework club, k-8, 12 hours a week. Just attended 10 hours of training in communication, classroom management, literacy tutoring, ELL (english language learners) tutoring, phys ed activities, proffesionalism and Americorps Stuff. I feel 10x more confident about working with kids and am really excited!