Here, Forward (Sarah)

I want to thank you all for the community and encouragement to write and connect and share these last few months. I don't know that I would have ever written the following poems without this group. Here are some pictures of the program from last night's concert and the final versions of the poems. 

Here, Forward

Skies

Through the mesh of the screen

On that lumpy mattress

On the roof

Trying to hold on to that view 

Those fires

Too many to count

Impossible to keep.

It was most beautiful at night.

Jump

So we jump. 

We go again. 

Take a step. 

Gingerly but not carefully. 

There’s nothing ginger about ginger. 

It zings. 

It sings. 

It’s alive. 

Jump.

We hope 

Our ankles are strong 

When we touch the ground.  

Knots

The knots are tricky in this body,

Fragile like that necklace with the maple leaf. 

“Are you Canadian?” 

“I just like leaves.” 

It broke but I saved it. 

I moved it again and again. 

It’s here with me now, 

Broken still. 

These knots are sore. 

They’re in my back and in my shins and creeping across these knuckles. 

I save them. I salve them. 

I loathe them and I hoard them. 

They hold me up

And give me shape. 

Ordering

It’s not about the order. 

It’s not a noun. 

A verb. It’s active and physical. 

Hard labor for the mind. 

At first it’s about who to tell and when. 

But then it’s inside and outside and everywhere.  

It’s boxes and tickets and pet visas and quarantines and views and birds and winds.

Selves and Shadows

I look out my window and see the flash of yellow birds. 

We whistle, we sing to each other.  

They think I’m also a bird

I think. 

But, surely, they know 

I’m just a person. 

My whistle becomes weak. 

The sureness that I’m real starts to fade. 

I’m a person. 

I’m a girl. 

I’m solid. 

But my bones are hollow and my skin grows feathers. 

I fight the currents. 

I float. 

I alight.

I sing. 

What will the song sound like? 

Will I trick them with this whistle again? 

Make them see I’m a bird? 

Lists

I have these lists in my head that keep everything straight, sharp, ready.

But they’re not very accurate. 

Especially when they rely on this memory, a broken cup.  

The ceramic has ridges and nubs that soothe my fingers and lips. 

It survived the flight home but not the hostility of our sink. 

It’s only cracked, barely chipped,

But the wine seeps out 

and stains 

and strains to remember the shape.

Routines/Rhythms

Routine is sedentary; routine is stagnant. Routine grows algae. 

Rhythm creates; rhythm enchants. Rhythm flows molten glass.

A volcano

Lava

Life

Movement.

This sounds like something beautiful is happening, 

But it is frightening

It is scary

Moving

Choosing

Leaving

Running

One foot before the next. 

Routines become life. 

Lives become routine. 

It’s hard to trust the new rhythm will come. 

Elevators

Wongs

Wrongs

Walks

Crashes

The little things we forgot we left behind.

Those earrings, that blanket, the painted bowl,

Remembered and lost anew. 

What happened to those pages? 

What parts of our skin are left in this place? 

The hairs, the threads from sweaters and socks. 

Pulled too hard. 

Unraveled. 

Will the birds use them in their nests? 

Will the orioles stash them in the trees? 

That kingfisher, the mynah outside the window, will they remember me?