Tag Archives: strength

Zippered Pride

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Let me tell you what I can do.

I can drive my standard 
down Bread Loaf mountain
and never touch the brakes
until the last defiant curve.

I can find sand dollars
with my toes and 
hermit crabs with my fingers
and slide them into to a child’s bucket.

I can make a cookie -
You’d choose it for your last meal:
Crisp edges and a chewy center,
Butterscotch Oatmeal Walnut

I can make a meal 
from empty cabinets
and fill a dining room table 
on Easter and Thanksgiving.

I can change a tire,
Unclog drains,
Find studs, 
Replace filters.

I can make chicken soup,
Send that card,
Pay those bills,
Remember everyone’s birthday.

And.

I cannot leave my house
with my dress fully zipped.
And at the end of all I do,
I cannot unzip myself.

It all comes down 
to this one small gesture,
the small seedling moment
that rifts my stony, stoic existence.

It is the weight of the hand
against my back, tugging downward,
breaking me open,
It is all that follows.

And all that I can do
Is silenced
by the quiet clicks
of the one thing
I cannot.

The Art of Letting Go or, Stormy with a Chance of Seedpods

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Photo art by Tom Branch

Letting go is like
Letting go of honey,
or letting go of dirt 
under your fingernails after
an afternoon in the garden

Letting go is like
dropping a hot-handled skillet,
the imprint bubbled into your palm.

Or it is like lingering.
It is losing the scent 
from a lover’s pillow.

It is the slow melt. 

It is marking each labored breath
while feeling the planet’s rotation
under your feet.

Letting go is like blowing 
a dandelion 
into the wind,
a contrary wind, 
that whisks tiny tailed wisps 
up your nostrils
under your eyelids
into your ears.

Letting go is artless wretchedness.
There’s no beauty in it:
It is a roll in the mud and
a stumble through the briars.
But when you emerge, 
your dented grace 
and seedling peace 
will be enough.

SAME OLD CABINET

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Same Old Cabinet

In my kitchen, the cabinets began
springing off the wall.
Behind their closed, crooked doors,
seams had separated, and
steadfastness slipped away.

I moved deliberately,
opening doors with care,
stacking dishes gently.
I was tentative and alert,
eyes fixed on the cabinets’
shuddering sinews.
I wanted to bolt.

The weight of their fall, I knew,
would break me with it.
I imagined myself,
broken boxes where
my body used to be,
The wicked witch, only
striped socks and pointy shoes
to show for myself.

Even then, I doubted. I discussed
the situation with friends: “Are you
seeing what I’m seeing?” They nodded
and said, “We told you this already.”

I called the carpenter. I learned the cabinets
could be fixed, but first I’d need to empty them.
I weighed out danger verses
upheaval before telling him yes.

On all my flat surfaces, I built
wobbly stacks of plates and glasses,
jars and cans. The carpenter left behind
gouged walls and a fine dust
that filled my lungs.

Outside the kitchen’s empty, ugly landscape,
I organized the chaos, carving out space
to eat, and work, and dream.

In the carpenter’s shop, the shaky seams
met with glue and screws,
And I came home to find the cabinets
hanging again, straight and true

That day, and the days following, I had no
desire to put everything back.
Then, I couldn’t quite remember
how it had been. I suspected the cabinets
had been mounted upside down.

Eventually I tucked it all back in.
The new arrangement was different,
but I had to admit, it was good,
and maybe, even better, than before.

My space is now safe and strong and stable.
Nothing angles out at me, threatening
to hurl a single dish or all of them at once.

But now, every time I look into the kitchen,
I still see those cabinets leaning.
I’m still running my hands along the seams
between the cabinet and the wall.

I’m not sure how long before
my eyes believe what my head knows;
how long before I stop waiting for
it all to come crashing down.

And now you’re home too, this old shape of you
that’s had a fair amount of screw and glue
to stand
you
up
straight.

I’ve gotten used to my peaceful cairns,
and I’m not sure how to move about you anymore.
I’m sorry to say, that most days,
I don’t even want to try.

What my head knows and
my heart believes are two different things.
When I look at you,
you’re still swaying.

-Chali Davis